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I 



GRIFF HOUSE 
GEORGE ELIOT’S EARLY HOME 






































GEORGE ELIOT’S 

if 

SILAS MARNER 

The Weaver of Raveloe 

EDITED BY 

EVALINE HARRINGTON 

DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH, WEST HIGH SCHOOL 
COLUMBUS, OHIO 

With Illustrations by 
FRANK T. MERRILL 

“A child, more than all other gifts 
That earth can offer to declining man. 

Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts ” 

Wordsworth 

GOL¬ 
DEN 


D. C. HEATH AND COMPANY 

BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO 

ATLANTA SAN FRANCISCO DALLAS 

LONDON 



to. 





P£3 

.£>3 

HEATH’S GOLDEN KEY SERIES “Dl 

The following titles , among many others, are available 
or in preparation: 


POETRY 


Arnold’s sohrab and rustum and other poems 
browning’s shorter poems 
french’s recent poetry 

GUINDON AND O’KEEFE’S JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL 
POETRY 

milton’s shorter poems 
scott’s lady of the lake 
tennyson’s idylls of the king 


FICTION 

cooper’s LAST OF THE MOHICANS 
ELIOT’S SILAS MARNER 

eliot’s mill on the floss 
hawthorne’s house of the seven gables 

TALES FROM HAWTHORNE 

dickens’s tale of two cities ( entire ) 

dickens’s tale of two cities (editedfor rapid reading) 

scott’s ivanhoe 

SCOTT’S QUENTIN DURWARD 

WILLIAMS AND LIEBER’s PANORAMA OF THE SHORT 
STORY 

OTHER TITLES 

ADDISON AND STEELE’S SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY 
PAPERS 

boswell’s life of Johnson ( selections) 
burke’s on conciliation 

PHILLIPS AND GEISLER’s GLIMPSES INTO THE WORLD 
OF SCIENCE 

LOWELL’S A MIRROR FOR AMERICANS 

(essays by Lowell and others about ourselves and our neighbors) 

MACAULA.y’s JOHNSON 

french’s OLD TESTAMENT NARRATIVES 
Shakespeare’s julius caesar 
Shakespeare’s midsummer night’s dream 


Copyright, 1930 

By D. C. Heath and Company 
3 B o 

Printed in the United States of America 


RPR -7 I9@C1 A 21598 



PREFACE 


In contrast to an historical romance, a novel of char¬ 
acter, like Silas Marner, does not require much editing. 
The story is true for all time and is perfectly clear with¬ 
out reference to its setting. Consequently introductory 
matter has been reduced to the minimum. 

The editor has included a short sketch of George Eliot — 
sufficient material to give the student some idea of the 
author — and a brief appreciation of the novel. The rest 
of her attention has been given to suggesting a variety of 
lesson helps and discussion questions, intended to indicate 
a few of the many ways of approaching this ever-popular 
story. 








CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Preface .. . iii 

Introduction .vii 

Part I. Chapters I-XV.i 

Part II. Chapters XVI-XXI .... 193 

Notes and Questions .. 261 

Suggestions for Study. 279 

Library References. 283 

Biographical Outline. 285 


v 







ILLUSTRATION^ 


Griff House. Frontispiece 

FACING PAGE 

It Was All Over with Wildfire ... 48 

There’s Been a Cursed Piece of III Luck with 
Wildfire.96 

A Quaint Procession.145 

It Was a Sleeping Child *.159 

Eppie and Silas Were Seated Alone . . 234 


vi 


INTRODUCTION 


A Mind Open for Inspection 

As we walk through a real estate addition we often see 
before a new house this placard: “Open for Inspection.” 
We enter and go through the house, perhaps admiring the 
plan and arrangement of the rooms, designed for con¬ 
venience, comfort, and beauty. If we are discerning, we 
see more than this, more than walls, wood, and plaster. 
We see also the mind of the architect “open for inspec¬ 
tion.” We sense that technical training, knowledge, skill, 
understanding of the housekeeper’s needs, supplied the 
mental equipment for his vocation. 

So it is with the author of a book; his mind is open for 
inspection. A book may entertain, tire, inspire us, ac¬ 
cording to the harmony between our mind and the mind 
of the author. 

If the author’s mind is poorly and meagerly furnished, 
the book will have the same qualities. If his mind is 
richly furnished and his nature fine and generous, his 
work will be of like caliber, because in his books he both 
reflects and projects himself. 

George Eliot had the richest mental gifts of any English 
novelist. As a child and young woman, Mary Ann Evans 
(George Eliot) attended the best private schools in her 
neighborhood, but she was in maturity largely self-taught. 
Young women in her time, the early Victorian period, did 
not go to college. A student by nature, devoted to mental 
pursuits, she even worked mathematical problems to keep 
her mind from becoming soft. She knew Latin, Greek, 
vii 


INTRODUCTION. 


viii 

German, French, Italian, and Spanish as literature, not 
simply as languages. In middle life she taught herself 
Hebrew. The mid-Victorian period in which she lived 
helped to develop her mind; intellectually it is still a 
memorable and distinguished era. She knew many eminent 
Victorians, including Herbert Spencer, Harriet Martineau, 
Charles Dickens, and Thackeray. 

Music was her greatest source of pleasure and entertain¬ 
ment, and she was a creditable performer on the piano, 
reading with ease and playing with feeling. Oratorios 
moved her to tears. The sciences claimed her interest, 
but she thought that the soul of the universe could never 
be captured by scientific research. 

To her writing she brought a scholar’s background, an 
independence of thought, and a fund of classified informa¬ 
tion and knowledge. Many partially educated people 
have minds crowded with all kinds of unsorted, unrelated 
facts, but her knowledge was stored away in orderly 
fashion, ready at hand to illustrate a point by an apt 
allusion, an historical reference, or a figure of speech. 

But hers was not a mere pedant’s mind. She had a very 
practical acquaintance with everyday things. Her house¬ 
wifely characters show this. When she was fifteen, her 
mother died, and she became the head of her father’s 
house. She delighted in keeping a neat, well-ordered home 
and was determined to excel in the domestic arts. “Im¬ 
portant trivialities” was her term for household duties. 
The dairy was an attractive spot to her, and she became 
skilled in molding cheese and butter. In her letters she 
speaks of making mince pies and currant jelly. She was 
an expert needlewoman and made ornamental articles for 
the home esteemed at that time, including hooked rugs, 
now once more in vogue. Her day was divided into 
periods for household affairs, reading, and study. When 
her father came to his last illness, she herself nursed him 
cheerfully and efficiently. “My chair by father’s bedside 


INTRODUCTION. 


IX 


is a very blessed seat to me,” she writes in one of her 
letters . 1 

Although her mind was masterly and masculine in 
strength and quality, her nature was very feminine and 
dependent, given to loneliness and self-distrust. She had 
no natural conceit and was never satisfied with her work, 
because her standards were very high. In her letters she 
referred to her “ivy nature” and was of the opinion that 
all human beings were dependent upon the affection and 
devotion of others for true happiness. To love and be 
loved she thought necessary states of being. She is fond 
of depicting “lonely souls,” but she does not let them pine 
in self-pity; she leads them to forget themselves and to 
find an object or cause for living. Silas Marner is a good 
example of this treatment. 

George Eliot’s family ties were very strong. The death 
of her father left her desolate, and long after she be¬ 
queathed to the kindness of friends the first little book 
he had given her as a child. Her elder sister’s illness 
“ploughed her heart.” The friends of her youth were 
cherished until her death and she begged to share not 
only their joys but their troubles. Her last unfinished 
letter was to a friend in sorrow. Sympathy was her 
richest gift. 

She was especially fond of pets and also loved children 
dearly. The sons of Mr. Lewes called her mother and 
looked to her for counsel and affection. One of her last 
letters records her pleasure in a little granddaughter. 

To her mind, the fullest lives were well-rooted in some 
comer of a native soil. The Midlands of England she 
took as her proper literary province. Her heart and 
affections were rooted there. Travel on the Continent 
enlarged her vision, but her mind always showed the im¬ 
press of England and her early training. This attachment 


1 Cross’s Life of George Eliot, Vol. I, page 147. 


X 


INTRODUCTION. 


and love for her fellow countrymen enabled her to write 
of them, to tell what they thought and why they acted as 
they did. She saw them with an understanding mind and 
a warm, sympathetic heart. 

But George Eliot’s success as a writer was not alto¬ 
gether due to these qualities, to intellectual gifts, or to 
craftsmanship. She had in addition a passion for express¬ 
ing herself so that she could be of help to others, and 
she sought to prepare herself for this objective just as she 
studied to improve her literary style. Probably her best 
expression of this desire is voiced in “ The Choir Invisible ” 
which shows the lofty quality of her spirit. In her zeal 
to instill lessons of right conduct she sometimes becomes 
didactic and heavy, the mind prevailing over the heart, 
but at her best she touches the life of her characters with 
humor, irony, and discerning tenderness. 

Girls and women now hear much shallow talk about 
charm and personal beauty, but rarely in these discussions 
is the quality and the furnishing of the mind mentioned 
as a feminine asset. Yet George Eliot’s mind and her 
sympathetic understanding of others drew people to her. 
She did not have beauty of feature, but her face was trans¬ 
figured by her smile. It was not always a sign of amuse¬ 
ment, but in it “was habitually mingled an expression of 
sympathy, either for the person smiled at or the person 
smiled with.” Her rich voice was low-pitched and directed 
to one person. To a friend in trouble or sorrow her hand¬ 
clasp carried more feeling than the words uttered by 
others. “Her conversation was natural but never slip¬ 
shod and the force and sharpness of her thought was never 
lost in worn phrases.” In subject it was not of herself 
and her attainments, but was an exchange of opinions, and 
others found themselves talking to her with ease, even 
though their intellectual gifts were not equal to hers. 
Such was the nature of the woman, and her finest charac¬ 
ters all have consequently a reflection of herself in them. 


INTRODUCTION. 


xi 


The Inspiration for “ (Silas Marner ” 

The inspiration for Silas Marner came from a childhood 
memory. When Mary Ann Evans (afterwards famous as 
George Eliot) was a little girl, she saw a linen weaver with 
a bag on his back, walking wearily along, the large sack 
outlined against the sky. 

She did not understand just why this particular image 
stayed with her. Individual weavers working in their 
homes were not unusual then. Perhaps her quick, eager 
sympathy made her think that the man looked bowed 
down and bent not only with the weight of the bag but 
with the burden of life itself. In some way the incident 
pressed on her child’s heart, and around it in mature years 
grew this story of Silas Marner’s blocked life. 

At first she thought of writing it in verse, because the 
easing of this man’s heavy load, the awakening of his tor¬ 
pid soul, was her predominating idea, and she considered 
this a worthy subject for poetry; but as the story grew 
in her mind, she saw him no longer as a solitary figure but 
drawn into companionship and sympathy with the life 
around him. She realized that the village people as types 
called for the humorous treatment of conversational prose 
and did not lend themselves to poetry. For this decision 
we are glad, because otherwise the scenes at the Rainbow 
and in the parlors of the Red House would not have de¬ 
lighted generations of chuckling readers. Although verse 
is not the medium of Silas Marner , you will find in it many 
passages of unrhymed poetry, often coming from the lips 
of untaught, plain people. Beauty of language is partly 
achieved by simplicity and directness, and the story of poor 
Silas is in its outline as direct as a Biblical narrative. 
George Eliot was inclined to be ponderous and explanatory, 
but Silas Marner is freer from these faults than many of her 
more ambitious and scholarly books, such as Daniel De- 
ronda and Romola. The narrative is held together by the 


INTRODUCTION. 


xii 

dramatic presentation of scenes centering for the most 
part around the life of Silas. His fortunes are crossed by 
Godfrey Cass and his associates, but it is Silas’s blighted 
and renewed life that gives form and unity to the whole. 
With him the book begins and ends. 

The chief motive of the work the author mentions in a 
letter to her publisher, John Blackwood. “It is intended 
to set in a strong light the remedial influences of pure, 
natural, human relations .” 1 In Mamer’s case the rela¬ 
tion was the love of a little adopted child. 

Sir Walter Besant considers Silas Marner the most per¬ 
fect of English novels and says that just as Thackeray will 
be remembered by one book, Vanity Fair, and Dickens by 
David Copperfield, so George Eliot will be remembered by 
Silas Marner. 


Setting 

The setting of Silas Marner is in Warwickshire, “the 
rich central plain of Merry England.” The map gives no 
Midland' village of that name, but in the George Eliot 
country there still stand such hamlets “nestled in snug 
well-wooded hollows.” 

It was the country she knew as a child and was the 
setting used in Scenes of Clerical Life, Adam Bede, Middle- 
march (which stands for Middle Mercia), and The Mill on 
the Floss. In Scenes of Clerical Life, readers recognized 
the Shepperton Church as the Chilvers Coton where 
George Eliot was baptized and Milby was identified as 
Nuneaton. Her settings are thus proved faithful descrip¬ 
tions. 

The time of the story is suggestively given by telling the 
customs and practices of the people and by casual refer¬ 
ences‘to current history. 

George Eliot in her most famous novels wrote of the life 
1 Cross’s Life of George Eliot, Vol. II, page 210. 


INTRODUCTION. 


xiii 


as she knew it best in rural England. As a child she used 
to ride through this country with her father, who was a 
land agent and managed five or six large estates in the 
neighborhood of Griff House near Nuneaton in Warwick¬ 
shire. All of her characters are not farmers, however; we 
see in her panorama laborers, craftsmen, tradesmen, in¬ 
dustrious, hard-working women, parish clerks with a 
“nasal twang,” clergymen of the Established Church, 
Dissenter preachers — all classes are represented; there 
is even a sprinkling of aristocracy, for the father as land 
steward visited the great houses. 

So faithful is she to life in setting and character that 
many thought her characters actual portraits, intended 
to represent real people. Real human beings they were, 
’tis true, but their creator always maintained that they 
were not actual portraits . 1 Adam, the honest craftsman 
of Adam Bede, is inspired by her father Robert Evans, 
who began his career as a carpenter. Her mother is de¬ 
picted as Mrs. Poyser, and her aunt becomes Dinah Morris 
in the same book. The early chapters of The Mill on the 
Floss are drawn from her own life, and Tom was the brother 
whom she tagged as a child until, to her sorrow, he outgrew 
her. She has immortalized this affection in her poem — 
“Brother and Sister,” ending with the oft-quoted lines 

“But were another childhood world my share, 

I would be bom a little sister there.” 

The Plot 

To George Eliot plot depends upon the way her charac¬ 
ters think and the decisions they make. The predicaments 
in which they find themselves result from what they are, 
and are not forced upon them from without. Her idea 
of plot, as soul-struggle, is very different from that of Sir 
Walter Scott, Cooper, or Robert Louis Stevenson, authors 
1 Cross’s Life of George Eliot, Vol. II, page 85. 


XIV 


INTRODUCTION. 


usually read in high schools. Outward circumstances 
made their plots, for they wrote novels of adventure. 
George Eliot, along with Thackeray and other English 
novelists, has given us novels of character and of manners. 
But a novel of character or a psychological novel can never 
be wholly without situation or some kind of struggle 
caused by opposing forces. 

She presents, therefore, according to the good old plan, 
two conflicting sets of characters. Since Silas Marner 
is an English story, these two groups of people represent 
two classes, the landed gentry and the villagers. Under¬ 
standing this social system is difficult for Americans, who 
are not particularly class conscious; at least they do not 
think they are. Yet in America class distinctions do 
exist. 

However, the real conflict is not external, but in the 
minds of the characters. This makes it different from the 
conflicts as represented in the storming of the stockade in 
Treasure Island, or the taking of the castle in Ivanhoe. 

The main plot centers around Silas and Eppie, the sub¬ 
plot about Godfrey and Nancy. The crossing of their 
paths brings about the plot incidents of inciting interest, 
climax, and conclusion. In each of these character groups, 
developing incidents illuminate their way of life and give 
with humor, and sometimes with pathos, scenes such as 
those at the Rainbow and the Red House, the resort of the 
villagers and home of the gentry. How George Eliot 
imagined the content of minds so different from her own 
is our despair. Any approach to an answer is found only 
in her camera-like sense of observation, her keen pene¬ 
tration, and her all-enveloping sympathy. 

To each of these plots belongs a distinct theme. The 
main plot has for its guiding maxim, “A little child shall 
lead them.” Whereas her text as applied to Godfrey’s 
life is, “Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.” 

Many of the plot incidents are highly dramatic, but the 


INTRODUCTION. 


xv 


psychological treatment of the author and the presentation 
of lofty ethical standards save the story from melodrama. 

Foreshadowing and the suspensive element add interest 
to the structure of the story. Contrast and parallelism 
give it force. George Eliot, with admirable craftsman¬ 
ship, prepares the reader for the introduction of new 
characters and scenes, thus giving the story a clearness 
and directness which make it easy to follow and under¬ 
stand. 

A Novel of Purpose 

George Eliot did not write merely to entertain and to 
amuse. In Silas Marner she has told a suspensive story 
filled with dramatic incidents — what the newspaper of 
today calls “human interest’’ — but were she living now, 
it would grieve her deeply to hear the frequent remark of 
modem youth: 

“This Silas Marner , I’m telling you, would make a 
dandy picture show and talkie. Things happen in it.” 

In like manner would she be leaden-hearted at the satis¬ 
faction of an eager, gasping reporter, who sees in Eppie’s 
coming to Silas’s hearth the makings of a front page 
feature story with a boxed streamer italic headline all its 
own. 

-During her lifetime her serious mind was gladdened by 
letters received from admiring readers, but the comment 
most welcomed by her ran something like this: “Your 
book has calmed my heart; it has helped me over a rough 
place.” That was her purpose—to aid people in the 
understanding of themselves and their problems, “to ease 
the burden of the world.” This purpose was her religion, 
for George Eliot was a deeply religious person and had 
been from her youth. 

She lived at the beginning of the scientific period whose 
investigation included the tenets of religious faith, and 
this influence led her to give up many orthodox beliefs of 


XVI 


INTRODUCTION. 


the churches; but she never lost the true spirit of religion 
as she found it revealed in the teachings of Christ and in 
the lives of her fellow men. 

She had written essays on the right course of conduct; 
but had she remained an essayist, we never should have 
heard her stirring call to unselfish living. Realizing that 
she had a genius for reading with pity and sympathy the 
impulses and desires of the human heart, she became a 
novelist, teaching through the development of the story 
and by the lives of her characters what is good, what 
is true, what is beautiful in human conduct and behav¬ 
ior. She called herself a teacher, a teacher in the field of 
aesthetics. 

She fixed upon the failure to understand our own nature 
as one of the prime causes of human unhappiness and 
misery. As young people you do not realize the forces 
and influences in your own lives which are at the present 
moment molding your future years. Only in later life 
will you, as you look back, sense that power which guided 
your life into a certain channel. Then you may not see 
it clearly, but only glimpse it dimly. 

There’s poor Silas. How slenderly he understood him¬ 
self. He thought that by living alone, in a strange place, 
hugging his sorrow to his heart, hoarding his money, and 
avoiding his neighbors, he could forget the past and its 
seeming injustice. He did not even know enough to go to 
the Rainbow occasionally and to make a few friends. He 
did not think to get himself a dog, a cat, a parrot, or a 
canary bird. Any one of these would have helped to take 
him out of himself and would have given him something 
to talk to, something to come home to. He thought that 
the accumulation of hard, unresisting gold would help him 
to forget. But he did not realize that there was nothing 
to save the gold for, no one to work for. It never occurred 
to Silas that the money was to no purpose, because it 
benefited no one. We should say that he lacked imag- 


INTRODUCTION. 


xvii 


ination. Why did he not go to an orphans’ home and 
confess: “I’m lonesome and unhappy, I want something 
to live for. Can’t you let me have a child? I’ll share 
with it, let it eat of my bread and drink of my cup, even 
if I sometimes go hungry. I know I won’t have as much, 
when there are two mouths to feed, but I feel this is the 
course I should take.” We know that Silas should have 
done this or something of a similar nature, but he did not. 
It would not have been like him. In fact, few people seek 
the road of self-denial. 

Silas probably had not heard about service and sacrifice 
as guideposts to peace and happiness; but Providence, 
Fate, Destiny, Chance, whatever you want to call it, takes 
this man in hand and leads him from the City of Destruc¬ 
tion. Lacking this guidance, he might have become insane 
in a few years and been “on the county,” or perhaps he 
would have drowned himself in the convenient stone-pit. 

“White-winged angels” are no longer calling men to 
action, the author says. We must grasp this living princi¬ 
ple with our minds: Man cannot live to himself. Life is 
to be poured out without stint as a precious fluid for the 
refreshment and strengthening of others. If we save our 
lives, we lose them. They cave in on us . 1 

To illustrate the basic facts of upright righteous living, 
George Eliot did not usually take for characters the great 
men and women of the earth, the titled and the highly 
gifted, but the commonplace, everyday people of town 
and countryside. She saw virtues in the lives of the 
mighty, but she felt that they had many to sing their 
hymns of praise. Moreover, she knew the humble and 
middle-class walks of life better. She wanted us to see 
nobility, generosity, the spirit of self-sacrifice in the lowly 

1 But he whose soul is flat, the sky 
Will cave in on him bye and bye 

— “ Renascence ” by 
Edna St. Vincent Millay 


XV111 


INTRODUCTION. 


and often-overlooked citizens of earth. Indirectly she 
says there’s no such thing as an uninteresting clod. 

In her bugle-call to high endeavor, “The Choir In¬ 
visible,” she prays to live again in minds made better by 
her presence. That was her idea of personal immortality. 
You fulfill her desire in this poem if, after reading Silas 
Marner, you find yourself more in sympathy with the lives 
of humble, thwarted, toiling folk, more generous in your 
judgment toward the wrong doer, more convinced that an 
upright, unselfish life is the only one worth living. 

Into our lives may come no great temptation, no killing 
sin. Heredity and environment may protect and defend 
us from these; but to all come the religious duty and the 
moral responsibility of well-wrought lives, not filled with 
whimpering, complaint, and double-dealing, but with high 
courage, good cheer, and “daring rectitude,” so ordered 
that they express the beauty of God’s peace. 


SILAS MARNER: 

Sffte ®Keaber of Uabeloe. 


PART I. 


CHAPTER I. 

In the days when the spinning-wheels hummed busily 
in the farmhouses — and even great ladies, clothed in 
silk and thread-lace, had their toy spinning-wheels of 
polished oak — there might be seen in districts far away 
among the lanes, or deep in the bosom of the hills, cer¬ 
tain pallid, undersized men, who, by the side of the 
brawny country-folk, looked like the remnants of a dis¬ 
inherited race. The shepherd’s dog barked fiercely 
when one of these alien-looking men appeared on the 
upland, dark against the early winter sunset; for what 
dog likes a figure bent under a heavy bag? — and these 
pale men rarely stirred abroad without that mysterious 
burden. The shepherd himself, though he had good 
reason to believe that the bag held nothing but 
flaxen thread, or else the long rolls of strong linen spun 
from that thread, was not quite sure that this trade of 
weaving, indispensable though it was, could be carried on 
entirely without the help of the Evil One. In that far-ofl 




s 


SILAS MARNER 


time superstition clung easily round every person or thing 
that was at all unwonted, or even intermittent and occa¬ 
sional merely, like the visits of the pedlar or the knife- 
grinder. No one knew where wandering men had their 
homes or their origin; and how was a man to be ex¬ 
plained unless you at least knew somebody who knew his 
father and mother ? To the peasants of old times, the 
world outside their own direct experience was a region 
of vagueness and mystery: to their untravelled thought 
a state of wandering was a conception as dim as the 
winter life of the swallows that came back with the spring; 
and even a settler, if he came from distant parts, hardly 
ever ceased to be viewed with a remnant of distrust, which 
would have prevented any surprise if a long course of 
inoffensive conduct on his part had ended in the com¬ 
mission of a crime; especially if he had any reputa¬ 
tion for knowledge, or showed any skill in handicraft. 
All cleverness, whether in the rapid use of that difficult 
instrument the tongue, or in some other art unfamiliar to 
villagers, was in itself suspicious : honest folks, born and 
bred in a visible manner, were mostly not overwise or 
clever — at least, not beyond such a matter as knowing 
the signs of the weather; and the process by which 
rapidity and dexterity of any kind were acquired was so 
wholly hidden, that they partook of the nature of con¬ 
juring. In this way it came to pass that those scattered 
linen-weavers — emigrants from the town into the country 
— were to the last regarded as aliens by their rustic neigh¬ 
bours, and usually contracted the eccentric habits which 
belong to a state df loneliness. 

In the early years of this century, such a linen-weaver, 


SILAS MARNER. 


3 


named Silas Marner, worked at his vocation in a stone 
cottage that stood among the nutty hedgerows near the 
village of Raveloe, and not far from the edge of a deserted 
stone-pit. The questionable sound of Silas’s loom, so un¬ 
like the natural cheerful trotting of the winnowing ma¬ 
chine, or the simpler rhythm of the flail, had a half-fearful 
fascination for the Raveloe boys, who would often leave 
off their nutting or birds’-nesting to peep in at the window 
of the stone cottage, counterbalancing a certain awe at 
the mysterious action of the loom, by a pleasant sense of 
scornful superiority, drawn from the mockery of its alter¬ 
nating noises, along with the bent, tread-mill attitude of the 
weaver. But sometimes it happened that Marner, paus¬ 
ing to adjust an irregularity in his thread, became aware 
of the small scoundrels, and, though chary of his time, 
he liked their intrusion so ill that he would descend from 
his loom, and, opening the door, would fix on them a 
gaze that was always enough to make them take to their 
legs in terror. For how was it possible to believe that 
those large brown protuberant eyes in Silas Marner’s pale 
face really saw nothing very distinctly that was not close to 
them, and not rather that their dreadful stare could dart 
cramp, or rickets, or a wry mouth at any boy who hap¬ 
pened to be in the rear? They had, perhaps, heard their 
fathers and mothers hint that Silas Marner could cure 
folk’s rheumatism if he had a mind, and add, still more 
darkly, that if you could only speak the devil fair enough, 
he might save you the cost of the doctor. Such strange 
lingering echoes of the old demon-worship might perhaps 
even now be caught by the diligent listener among the 
grey-haired peasantry; for the rude mind with difficulty 


4 


SILAS MARNER. 


associates the ideas of power and benignity. A shadowy 
conception of power that by much persuasion can be in¬ 
duced to refrain from inflicting harm, is the shape most 
easily taken by the sense of the Invisible in the minds of 
men who have always been pressed close by primitive 
wants, and to whom a life of hard toil has never been 
illuminated by any enthusiastic religious faith. To them 
pain and mishap present a far wider range of possibilities 
than gladness and enjoyment: their imagination is almost 
barren of the images that feed desire and hope, but is all 
overgrown by recollections that are a perpetual pasture 
to fear. “ Is there anything you can fancy that you would 
like to eat?” I once said to an old labouring man, who 
was in his last illness, and who had refused all the food 
his wife had offered him. “ No,” he answered, “ I’ve 
never been used to nothing but common victual, and I 
can’t eat that.” Experience had bred no fancies in him 
that could raise the phantasm of appetite. 

And Raveloe was a village where many of the old 
echoes lingered, undrowned by new voices. Not that 
it was one of those barren parishes lying on the outskirts 
of civilization — inhabited by meagre sheep and thinly- 
scattered shepherds; on the contrary, it lay in the rich 
central plain of what we are pleased to call Merry Eng¬ 
land, and held farms which, speaking from a spiritual 
point of view, paid highly-desirable tithes. But it was 
nestled in a snug well-wooded hollow, quite an hour’s 
journey on horseback from any turnpike, where it was 
never reached by the vibrations of the coach-horn, or of 
public opinion. It was an important-looking village, 
with a fine old church and large churchyard in the heart 


SILAS MARNER. 


5 


of it, and two or three large brick-and-stone homesteads, 
with well-walled orchards and ornamental weathercocks, 
standing close upon the road, and lifting more imposing 
fronts than the rectory, which peeped from among the 
trees on the other side of the churchyard; — a village 
which showed at once the summits of its social life, and 
told the practised eye that there was no great park and 
manor-house 1 in the vicinity, but that there were several 
chiefs in Raveloe who could farm badly quite at their 
ease, drawing enough money from their bad farming, in 
those war times , 2 to live in a rollicking fashion, and keep 
a jolly Christmas, Whitsun , 3 and Easter tide. 

It was fifteen years since Silas Marner had first come 
to Raveloe; he was then simply a pallid young man, 
with prominent short-sighted brown eyes, whose appear¬ 
ance would have had nothing strange for people of aver¬ 
age culture and experience, but for the villagers near 
whom he had come to settle it had mysterious peculiari¬ 
ties which corresponded with the exceptional nature of 
his occupation, and his advent from an unknown region 
called “ North’ard.” So had his way of life : — he invited 
no comer to step across his door-sill, and he never 
strolled into the village to drink a pint at the Rainbow, 


1 The house belonging to a manor, the land given at the time of the 
Norman Conquest of Britain to some lord or great personage for the use 
and subsistence of his family. 

2 The war referred to was that with France which began in 1793, and 
mded with the overthrow of Napoleon I. at Waterloo in 1815. 

8 A church festival on the seventh Sunday after Easter held in mem¬ 
ory of the descent of the Holy Ghost at Pentecost. White vestments 
were worn by the candidates for baptism : hence the name contracted 
from White-Sunday-tide. 


6 


SILAS MARNER. 


or to gossip at the wheelwright’s : he sought no man or 
woman, save for the purposes of his calling, or in order 
to supply himself with necessaries; and it was soon clear 
to the Raveloe lasses that he would never urge one ol 
them to accept him against her will — quite as if he had 
heard them declare that they would never marry a dead 
man come to life again. This view of Marner’s personality 
was not without another ground than his pale face and 
unexampled eyes; for Jem Rodney, the mole-catcher, 
averred that, one evening as he was returning homeward 
he saw Silas Marner leaning against a stile with a heavy 
bag on his back, instead of resting the bag on the stile as 
a man in his senses would have done; and that, on com¬ 
ing up to him, he saw that Marner’s eyes were set like a 
dead man’s, and he spoke to him, and shook him, and 
his limbs were stiff, and his hands clutched the bag as if 
they’d been made of iron; but just as he had made up 
his mind that the weaver was dead, he came all right 
again, like, as you might say, in the winking of an eye, 
and said “Good night,” and walked off. All this Jem 
swore he had seen, more by coken that it was the very day 
he had been mole-catching on Squire Cass’s land, down 
by the old saw-pit. Some said Marner must have been 
in a “ fit,” a word which seemed to explain things other¬ 
wise incredible ; but the argumentative Mr. Macey, clerk 
of the parish, shook his head, and asked if anybody was 
ever known to go off in a fit and not fall down. A fit 
was a stroke, wasn’t it? and it was in the nature of a 
stroke to partly take away the use of a man’s limbs and 
throw him on the parish, if he’d got no children to look 
to. No, no; it was no stroke that would let a man stand 


SILAS MARNER. 


7 


on his legs, like a horse between the shafts, and then walk 
off as soon as you can say “ Gee ! ” But there might 
be such a thing as a man’s soul being loose from his 
body, and going out and in, like a bird out of its nest 
and back; and that was how folks got overuse, for they 
went to school in this shell-less state to those who could 
teach them more than their neighbours could learn with 
their five senses and the parson. And where did Master 
Marner get his knowledge of herbs from — and charms 
too, if he liked to give them away ? Jem Rodney’s 
story was no more than what might have been expected 
by anybody who had seen how Marner had cured Sally 
Oates, and made her sleep like a baby, when her heart 
had been beating enough to burst her body, for two 
months and more, while she had been under the doctor’s 
care. He might cure more folks if he would; but he 
was worth speaking fair, if it was only to keep him from 
doing you a mischief. 

It was partly to this vague fear that Marner was in¬ 
debted for protecting him from the persecution that his 
singularities might have drawn upon him, but still more 
to the fact that, the old linen-weaver in the neighouring 
parish of Tarley being dead, his handicraft made him a 
highly welcome settler to the richer housewives of the 
district, and even to the more provident cottagers, who 
had their little stock of yarn at the year’s end. Their 
sense of his usefulness would have counteracted any re¬ 
pugnance or suspicion which was not confirmed by a 
deficiency in the quality or the tale 1 of the cloth he 

i A reckoning, amount, or quantity; cf. “ tally.” See Milton’s 
* U Allegro,” 1 . 67, and Exodus, v. 8. 


8 


SILAS MARNER. 


wove for them. And the years had rolled on without 
producing any change in the impressions of the neigh¬ 
bours concerning Marner, except the change from novelty 
to habit. At the end of fifteen years the Raveloe men 
said just th£ same things about Silas Marner as at the 
beginning: they did not say them quite so often, but 
they believed them much more strongly when they 
did say them. There was only one important addition 
which the years had brought: it was, that Master Marner 
had laid by a fine sight of money somewhere, and that 
he could buy up “ bigger men ” than himself. 

But while opinion concerning him had remained nearly 
stationary, and his daily habits had presented scarcely 
any visible change, Marner’s inward life had been a his¬ 
tory and a metamorphosis, as that of every fervid nature 
must be when it has fled, or been condemned to solitude. 
His life, before he came to Raveloe, had been filled with 
the movement, the mental activity, and the close fellow¬ 
ship, which in that day as in this, marked the life of an 
artisan early incorporated in a narrow' religious sect, 
where the poorest layman has the chance of distinguish¬ 
ing himself by gifts of speech, and has, at the very least, 
the weight of a silent voter in the government of his com¬ 
munity. Marner was highly thought of in that little 
hidden world, known to itself as the church assembling 
in Lantern Yard; he was believed to be a young man 
of exemplary life and ardent faith ; and a peculiar interest 
had been centred in him ever since he had fallen, at a 
prayer-meeting, into a mysterious rigidity and suspension 
of consciousness, which, lasting for an hour or more, had 
been mistaken for death. To have sought a medical 


SILAS MARNER. 


9 


explanation for this phenomenon would have been held 
by Silas himself, as well as by his minister and fellow- 
members, a wilful self-exclusion from the spiritual sig¬ 
nificance that might lie therein. Silas was evidently a 
brother selected for a peculiar discipline; and though 
the effort to interpret this discipline was discouraged by 
the absence, on his part, of any spiritual vision during 
his outward trance, yet it was believed by himself and 
others that its effect was seen in an accession of light 
and fervour. A less truthful man than he might have 
been tempted into the subsequent creation of a vision in 
the form of resurgent memory; a less sane man might 
have believed in such a creation; but Silas was both sane 
and honest, though, as with many honest and fervent 
men, culture had not defined any channels for his sense 
of mystery, and so it spread itself over the proper path¬ 
way of inquiry and knowledge. He had inherited from 
his mother some acquaintance with medicinal herbs and 
their preparation — a little store of wisdom which she 
had imparted to him as a solemn bequest — but of late 
years he had had doubts about the lawfulness of apply¬ 
ing this knowledge, believing that herbs could have no. 
efficacy without prayer, and that prayer might suffice 
without herbs; so that his inherited delight to wander 
in the fields in search of foxglove and dandelion and 
coltsfoot, began to wear to him the character of a temp¬ 
tation. 

Among the members of his church there was one 
young man, a little older than himself, with whom he 
had long lived in such close friendship that it was the 
custom of their Lantern Yard brethren to call them 


10 


SILAS MARNER. 


David and Jonathan. The real name of the friend was 
William Dane, and he, too, was regarded as a shining 
instance of youthful piety, though somewhat given to 
over-severity towards weaker brethren, and to be so 
dazzled by his own light as to hold himself wiser than 
his teachers. But whatever blemishes others might dis¬ 
cern in William, to his friend’s mind he was faultless; 
for Marner had one of those impressible self-doubting 
natures which, at an inexperienced age, admire impera¬ 
tiveness and lean on contradiction. The expression of 
trusting simplicity in Marner’s face, heightened by that 
absence of special observation, that defenceless, deer¬ 
like gaze which belongs to large prominent eyes, was 
strongly contrasted by the self-complacent suppression 
of inward triumph that lurked in the narrow slanting eyes 
and compressed lips of William Dane. One of the most 
frequent topics of conversation between the two friends 
was Assurance of salvation : 1 Silas confessed that he 
could never arrive at anything higher than hope mingled 
with fear, and listened with longing wonder when William 
declared that he had possessed unshaken assurance ever 
since, in the period of his conversion, he had dreamed 
that he saw the words “ calling and election sure ” 2 
standing by themselves on a white page in the open 
Bible. Such colloquies have occupied many a pair of 
pale-faced weavers, whose unnurtured souls have been 

1 A statement of this doctrine will be found in the Westminster Con» 
fession of Faith, chap, xviii, § 2. 

2 “ Wherefore the rather, brethren, give diligence to make your call¬ 
ing and election sure: for if ye do these things, ye shall never fall." 
II Peter , i. 10. 


SILAS MARNER. 


ii 


like young winged things, fluttering forsaken in the twi¬ 
light. 

It had seemed to the unsuspecting Silas that the 
friendship had suffered no chill even from his formation 
of another attachment of a closer kind. For some 
months he had been engaged to a young servant-woman, 
waiting only for a little increase to their mutual savings 
in order to their marriage ; and it was a great delight 
to him that Sarah did not object to William’s occasional 
presence in their Sunday interviews. It was at this point 
in their history that Silas’s cataleptic fit 1 occurred during 
the prayer-meeting; and amidst the various queries and 
expressions of interest addressed to him by his fellow- 
members, William’s suggestion alone jarred with the 
general sympathy towards a brother thus singled out 
for special dealings. He observed that, to him, this 
trance looked more like a visitation of Satan than a 
proof of divine favour, and exhorted his friend to see 
that he did no accursed thing within his soul. Silas, 
reeling bound to accept rebuke and admonition as a 
brotherly office, felt no resentment, but only pain, at his 
friend’s doubts concerning him; and to this was soon 
added some anxiety at the perception that Sarah’s man¬ 
ner towards him began to exhibit a strange fluctuation 
between an effort at an increased manifestation of regard 
and involuntary signs of shrinking and dislike. He asked 
her if she wished to break off their engagement; but she 
denied this : their engagement was known to the church, 
and had been recognized in the prayer-meetings ; it could 

1 A spasmodic condition in which the action of the will and senses 
16 indefinitely suspended and the body generally becomes rigid. 


12 


SILAS MARNER. 


not be broken off without strict investigation, and Sarah 
could render no reason that would be sanctioned by the 
feeling of the community. At this time the senior dea¬ 
con was taken dangerously ill, and, being a childless 
widower, he was tended night and day by some of the 
younger brethren or sisters. Silas frequently took his 
turn in the night-watching with William, the one reliev¬ 
ing the other at two in the morning. The old man, 
contrary to expectation, seemed to be on the way to 
recovery, when one night Silas, sitting up by his bedside, 
observed that his usual audible breathing had ceased. 
The candle was burning low, and he had to lift it to see 
the patient’s face distinctly. Examination convinced him 
that the deacon was dead — had been dead some time, 
for the limbs were rigid. Silas asked himself if he had 
been asleep, and looked at the clock : it was already four 
in the morning. How was it that William had not come ? 
In much anxiety he went to seek for help, and soon there 
were several friends assembled in the house, the minister 
among them, while Silas went away to his work, wishing 
he could have met William to know the reason of his 
non-appearance. But at six o’clock, as he was thinking 
of going to seek his friend, William came, and with him 
the minister. They came to summon him to Lantern 
Yard, to meet the church members there; and to his 
inquiry concerning the cause of the summons the only 
reply was, “You will hear.” Nothing further was said 
until Silas was seated in the vestry, in front of the min¬ 
ister, with the eyes of those who to him represented 
God’s people fixed solemnly upon him. Then the min¬ 
ister, taking out a pocket-knife, showed it to Silas, and 


SILAS MARNER. 


13 


asked him if he knew where he had left that knife? 
Silas said, he did not know that he had left it anywhere 
out of his own pocket—-but he was trembling at this 
strange interrogation. He was then exhorted not to hide 
his sin, but to confess and repent. The knife had been 
found in the bureau by the departed deacon’s bedside — 
found in the place where the little bag of church money 
had lain, which the minister himself had seen the day 
before. Some hand had removed that bag; and whose 
hand could it be, if not that of the man to whom the 
knife belonged? For some time Silas was mute with 
astonishment: then he said, “ God will clear me: I 
know nothing about the knife being there, or the money 
being gone. Search me and my dwelling; you will find 
nothing but three pound five of my own savings, which 
William Dane knows I have had these six months.” At 
this William groaned, but the minister said, “ The proof 
is heavy against you, brother Marner. The money was 
taken in the night last past, and no man was with our 
departed brother but you, for William Dane declares to 
us that he was hindered by sudden sickness from going 
to take his place as usual, and you yourself said that he 
nad not come; and, moreover, you neglected the dead 
body.” 

“ I must have slept,” said Silas. Then after a pause, 
he added, “ Or I must have had another visitation like 
that which you have all seen me under, so that the thief 
must have come and gone while I was not in the body, 
but out of the body. But, I say again, search me and 
my dwelling, for I have been nowhere else.” 

The search was made, and it ended — in William 


14 


SILAS MARNER. 


Dane’s finding the well-known bag, empty, tucked be¬ 
hind the chest of drawers in Silas’s chamber! On this 
William exhorted his friend to confess, and not to hide 
his sin any longer. Silas turned a look of keen reproach 
on him, and said, “ William, for nine years that we have 
gone in and cut together, have you ever known me tell a 
lie ? But God will clear me.” 

“ Brother,” said William, “ how do I know what you 
may have done in the secret chambers of your heart, to 
give Satan an advantage over you ? ” 

Silas was still looking at his friend. Suddenly a deep 
flush came over his face, and he was about to speak 
impetuously, when he seemed checked again by some 
inward shock, that sent the flush back and made him 
tremble. But at last he spoke feebly, looking at William. 

“I remember now — the knife wasn’t in my pocket.” 

William said, “ I know nothing of what you mean.” 
The other persons present, however, began to inquire 
where Silas meant to say that the knife was, but he would 
give no further explanation: he only said, “ I am sore 
stricken ; I can say nothing. God will clear me.” 

On their return to the vestry there was further delibera¬ 
tion. Any resort to legal measures for ascertaining the 
culprit was* contrary to the principles of the Church in 
Lantern Yard according to which prosecution was for¬ 
bidden to Christians, even had the case held less scandal 
to the community. But the members were bound to take 
other measures for finding out the truth, and they re¬ 
solved on praying and drawing lots. This resolution can 
be a ground of surprise only to those who' are unac¬ 
quainted with that obscure religious life which has gone 


SILAS MARNER. 


*5 


on in the alleys of our towns. Silas knelt with his breth¬ 
ren, relying on his own innocence being certified by 
immediate divine interference, but feeling that there was 
sorrow and mourning behind for him even then — that 
his trust in man had been cruelly bruised. The lots de¬ 
clared that Silas Marner was guilty. He was solemnly 
suspended from church-membership, and called upon to 
render up the stolen money: only on confession, as the 
sign of repentance, could he be received once more 
within the folds of the church. Marner listened in silence. 
At last, when every one rose to depart, he went towards 
William Dane and said, in a voice shaken by agitation — 

“ The last time I remember using my knife, was when 
I took it out to cut a strap for you. I don’t remember 
putting it in my pocket again. You stole the money, and 
you have woven a plot to lay the sin at my door. But 
you may prosper, for all that: there is no just God that 
governs the earth righteously, but a God of lies, that bears 
witness against the innocent.” 

There was a general shudder at this blasphemy. 

William said meekly, “ I leave our brethren to judge 
whether this is the voice of Satan, or not. I can do 
nothing but to pray for you, Silas.” 

Poor Marner went out with that despair in his soul — 
that shaken trust in God and man, which is little short 
of madness to a loving nature. In the bitterness of his 
wounded spirit, he said to himself, “She will cast me off 
too.” And he reflected that if she did not believe the 
testimony against him, her whole faith must be upset as 
his was. To people accustomed to reason about the 
forms in which their religious feeling has incorporated 


i6 


SILAS MARNER. 


itself, it is difficult to enter into that simple, untaught 
state of mind in which the form and the feeling have 
never been severed by an act of reflection. We are 
apt to think it inevitable that a man in Marner’s posi¬ 
tion should have begun to question the validity of an 
appeal to the divine judgment by drawing lots; but to 
him this would have been an effort of independent 
thought such as he had never known; and he must have 
made the effort at a moment when all his energies were 
turned into the anguish of disappointed faith. If there 
is an angel who records the sorrows of men as well as 
their sins, he knows how many and deep are the sorrows 
that spring from false ideas for which no man is culpable. 

Marner went home, and for a whole day sat alone, 
stunned by despair, without any impulse to go to Sarah 
and attempt to win her belief in his innocence. The 
second day he took refuge from benumbing unbelief, by 
getting into his loom and working away as usual; and 
before many hours were past, the minister and one of 
the deacons came to him with the message from Sarah, 
that she held her engagement to him at an end. Silas 
received the message mutely, and then turned away from 
the messengers to work at his loom again. In little more 
than a month from that time, Sarah was married to 
William Dane; and not long afterwards it was known to 
the brethren in Lantern Yard that Silas Marner had 
departed from the town. 


CHAPTER II. 


Even people whose lives have been made various by 
learning, sometimes find it hard to keep a fast hold on 
their habitual views of life, on their faith in the Invisible, 
nay, on the sense that their past joys and sorrows are a 
real experience, when they are suddenly transported to a 
new land, where the beings around them know nothing 
of their history, and share none of their ideas — where 
their mother earth shows another lap, and human life has 
other forms than those on which their souls have been 
nourished. Minds that have been unhinged from their 
old faith and love, have perhaps sought this Lethean 1 in¬ 
fluence of exile, in which the past becomes dreamy be¬ 
cause its symbols have all vanished, and the present too 
is dreamy because it is linked with no memories. But 
even their experience may hardly enable them thoroughly 
to imagine what was the effect on a simple weaver like 
Silas Marner, when he left his own country and people 
and came to settle in Raveloe. Nothing could be more 
unlike his native town, set within sight of the wide-spread 
hillsides, than this low, wooded region, where he felt 

1 “ Far off from these, a slow and silent stream, 

Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls 

Her watery labyrinth ; whereof who drinks 

Forthwith his former state and being forgets, 

Forgets both joy and grief, pleasure and pain.” 

— Milton’s Paradise Lost book ii, 582. 
c 17 


i8 


SILAS MARNER. 


hidden even from the heavens by the screening trees and 
hedgerows. There was nothing here, when he rose in 
the deep morning quiet and looked out on the dewy 
brambles and rank tufted grass, that seemed to have any 
relation with that life centring in Lantern Yard, which had 
once been to him the altar-place of high dispensations. 3 
The white-washed walls; the little pews where well- 
known figures entered with a subdued rustling, and where 
first one well-known voice and then another, pitched in 
a peculiar key of petition, uttered phrases at once occult 
and familiar, like the amulet 2 worn on the heart; the pulpit 
where the minister delivered unquestioned doctrine, and 
swayed to and fro, and handled the book in a long accus¬ 
tomed manner; the very pauses between the couplets of 
the hymn, as it was given out, and the recurrent swell 
of voices in song; these things had been the channel of 
divine influences to Marner — they were the fostering 
home of his religious emotions — they were Christianity 
and God’s kingdom upon earth. A weaver who finds 
hard words in his hymn-book knows nothing of abstrac¬ 
tions ; as the little child knows nothing of parental love, 
but only knows one face and one lap towards which it 
stretches its arms for refuge and nurture. 

And what could be more unlike that Lantern Yard 
world than the world in Raveloe? — orchards looking 
lazy with neglected plenty; the large church in the wide 
churchyard, which men gazed at lounging at their own 

1 The source of authority in religious matters. It was the custom of 
the Israelites to go up to Shiloh (afterwards to Jerusalem), where stood 
the altar of the Lord, in order to worship and to hear the word of the 
Lord through his prophets. See I Samuel, iii. 

2 A charm worn to bring good fortune or to ward off evil. 


SILAS MARNER. 


19 


doors in service-time; the purple-faced farmers jogging 
along the lanes or turning in at the Rainbow; home¬ 
steads, where men supped heavily and slept in the light 
of the evening hearth, and where women seemed to be 
laying up a stock of linen for the life to come. There 
were no lips in Raveloe from which a word could fall 
that would stir Silas Marner’s benumbed faith to a sense 
of pain. In the early ages of the world, we know, it was 
believed that each territory was inhabited and ruled by 
its own divinities, so that a man could cross the border¬ 
ing heights and be out of the reach of his native gods, 
whose presence was confined to the streams and the 
groves and the hills among which he had lived from his 
birth. And poor Silas was vaguely conscious of some¬ 
thing not unlike the feeling of primitive men, when they 
fled thus, in fear or in sullenness, from the face of an 
unpropitious deity. It seemed to him that the Power 
he had vainly trusted among the streets and at the 
prayer-meetings, was very far away from this land in 
which he had taken refuge, where men lived in careless 
abundance, knowing and needing nothing of that trust, 
which, for him, had been turned to bitterness. The 
little light he possessed spread its beams so narrowly, 
that frustrated belief was a curtain broad enough to 
create for him the blackness of night. 

His first movement after the shock had been to work 
in his loom; and he went on with this unremittingly, 
never asking himself why, now he was come to Raveloe, 
he worked far on into the night to finish the tale of Mrs. 
Osgood’s table-linen sooner than she expected — without 
contemplating beforehand the money she would nut into 


20 


SILAS MARNER. 


his hand for the work. He seemed to weave like the 
spider, from pure impulse, without reflection. Every 
man’s work, pursued steadily, tends in this way to be¬ 
come an end in itself, and so to bridge over the loveless 
chasms of his life. Silas’s hand satisfied itself with 
throwing the shuttle, and his eye with seeing the little 
squares in the cloth complete themselves under his ef¬ 
fort. Then there were the calls of hunger; and Silas, 
in his solitude, had to provide his own breakfast, dinner, 
and supper, to fetch his own water from the well, and 
put his own kettle on the fire; and all these immediate 
promptings helped, along with the weaving, to reduce 
his life to the unquestioning activity of a spinning insect. 
He hated the thought of the past; there was nothing 
that called out his love and fellowship towards the 
strangers he had come amongst; and the future was all 
dark, for there was no Unseen Love that cared for him. 
Thought was arrested by utter bewilderment, now its old 
narrow pathway was closed, and affection seemed to have 
died under the bruise that had fallen on its keenest 
nerves. 

But at last Mrs. Osgood’s table-linen was finished, and 
Silas was paid in gold. His earnings in his native town, 
where he worked for a wholesale dealer, had been after a 
lower rate ; he had been paid weekly, and of his weekly 
earnings a large proportion had gone to objects of piety 
and charity. Now, for the first time in his life, he had 
five bright guineas put into his hand ; no man expected 
a share of them, and he loved no man that he should 
offer him a share. But what were the guineas to him who 
saw no vista beyond countless days of weaving? It was 


SILAS MANNER. 


21 


needless for him to ask that, for it was pleasant to him 
to feel them in his palm, and look at their bright faces, 
which were all his own : it was another element of life, 
iike the weaving and the satisfaction of hunger, subsist¬ 
ing quite aloof from the life of belief and love from which 
he had been cut off. The weaver’s hand had known the 
touch of hard-won money even before the palm had 
grown to its full breadth; for twenty years, mysterious 
money had stood to him as the symbol of earthly good, 
and the immediate object of toil. He had seemed to 
love it little in the years when every penny had its pur¬ 
pose for him ; for he loved the purpose then. But now, 
when all purpose was gone, that habit of looking towards 
the money and grasping it with a sense of fulfilled effort 
made a loam that was deep enough for the seeds of 
desire; and as Silas walked homeward across the fields 
in the twilight, he drew out the money, and thought it 
was brighter in the gathering gloom. 

About this time an incident happened which seemed to 
open a possibility of some fellowship with his neighbours. 
One day, taking a pair of shoes to be mended, he saw the 
cobbler’s wife seated by the fire, suffering from the terri¬ 
ble symptoms of heart-disease and dropsy, which he had 
witnessed as the precursors of his mother’s death. He 
felt a rush of pity at the mingled sight and remembrance, 
and, recalling the relief his mother had found from a 
simple preparation of foxglove, he promised Sally Oates 
to bring her something that would ease her, since the 
doctor did her no good. In this office of charity, Silas 
felt, for the first time since he had come to Raveloe, a 
sense of unity between his past and present life, which 


22 


SILAS MARNER. 


might have been the beginning of his rescue from th6 
insect-like existence into which his nature had shrunk, 
But Sally Oates’s disease had raised her into a personage 
of much interest and importance among the neighbours, 
and the fact of her having found relief from drinking Silas 
Marner’s “stuff” became a matter of general discourse. 
When Doctor Kimble gave physic, it was natural that it 
should have an effect; but when a weaver, who came from 
nobody knew where, worked wonders with a bottle of 
brown water, the occult character of the process was 
evident. Such a sort of thing had not been known 
since the Wise Woman at Tarley died; and she had 
charms as well as “ stuff” ; everybody went to her when 
their children had fits. Silas Marner must be a person 
of the same sort, for how did he know what would bring 
back Sally Oates’s breath, if he didn’t know a fine sight 
more than that? The Wise Woman had words that 
she muttered to herself, so that you couldn’t hear what 
they were, and if she tied a bit of red thread round the 
child’s toe the while, it would keep off the water in the 
head. There were women in Raveloe, at that present 
time, who had worn one of the Wise Woman’s little bags 
round their necks, and, in consequence, had never had 
an idiot child, as Ann Coulter had. Silas Marner could 
very likely do as much, and more; and now it was all 
clear how he should have come from unknown parts, 
and be so “comical-looking.” But Sally Oates must 
mind and not tell the doctor, for he would be sure to 
set his face against Marner; he was always angry about 
the Wise Woman, and used to threaten those who went 
to her that they should have none of his help any more. 


SILAS MARNER. 


23 


Silas now found himself and his cottage suddenly beset 
by mothers who wanted him to charm away the hooping- 
cough, or bring back the milk, and by men who wanted 
stuff against the rheumatics or the knots in the hands; 
and, to secure themselves against a refusal, the applicants 
brought silver in their palms. Silas might have driven 
a profitable trade in charms as well as in his small list 
of drugs ; but money on this condition was no tempta¬ 
tion to him : he had never known an impulse towards 
falsity, and he drove one after another away with grow¬ 
ing irritation, for the news of him as a wise man had 
spread even to Tarley, and it was long before people 
ceased to take long walks for the sake of asking his aid. 
But the hope in his wisdom was at length changed into 
dread, for no one believed him when he said he knew 
no charms and could work no cures, and every man and 
woman who had an accident or a new attack after apply¬ 
ing to him, set the misfortune down to Master Marner’s 
ill-will and irritated glances. Thus it came to pass that 
his movement of pity towards Sally Oates, which had 
given him a transient sense of brotherhood, heightened 
the repulsion between him and his neighbours, and made 
his isolation more complete. 

Gradually the guineas, the crowns, and the half-crowns, 
grew to a heap, and Marner drew less and less for his own 
wants, trying to solve the problem of keeping himself 
strong enough to work sixteen hours a day on as small 
an outlay as possible. Have not men, shut up in solitary 
imprisonment, found an interest in marking the moments 
by straight strokes of a certain length on the wall, until 
the growth of the sum of straight strokes, arranged in 


24 


SILAS MARNER. 


triangles, has become a mastering purpose ? Do we not 
while away moments of inanity or fatigued waiting by 
repeating some trivial movement or sound, until the 
repetition has bred a want, which is incipient habit? 
That will help us to understand how the love of accumu¬ 
lating money grows an absorbing passion in men whose 
imaginations, even in the very beginning of their hoard, 
showed them no purpose beyond it. Marner wanted 
the heaps of ten to grow into a square, and then into a 
larger square; and every added guinea, while it was 
itself a satisfaction, bred a new desire. In this strange 
world, made a hopeless riddle to him, he might, if he 
had had a less intense nature, have sat weaving, weaving 
— looking towards the end of his pattern, or towards the 
end of his web, till he forgot the riddle, and everything 
else but his immediate sensations: but the money had 
come to mark off his weaving into periods, and ‘the 
money not only grew, but it remained with him. He 
began to think it was conscious of him, as his loom was, 
and he would on no account have exchanged those coins, 
which had become his familiars, for other coins with 
unknown faces. He handled them, he counted them, 
till their form and colour were like the satisfaction of a 
thirst to him: but it was only in the night, when his 
work was done, that he drew them out to enjoy their 
companionship. He had taken up some bricks in his 
floor underneath his loom, and here he had made a hole 
in which he set the iron pot that contained his guineas 
and silver coins, covering the bricks with sand whenever 
he replaced them. Not that the idea of being robbed 
presented itself often or strongly to his mind: hoarding 


SILAS MARNER. 


25 

was common in country districts in those days; there 
were old labourers in the parish of Raveloe who were 
known to have their savings by them, probably inside 
their flock-beds , 1 but their rustic neighbours, though not 
all of them as honest as their ancestors in the days of 
King Alfred , 2 had not imaginations bold enough to lay 
a plan of burglary. How could they have spent the 
money in their own village without betraying themselves ? 
They would be obliged to “ run away ” — a course as 
dark and dubious as a balloon journey. 

So, year after year, Silas Marner had lived in this soli¬ 
tude, his guineas rising in the iron pot, and his life nar¬ 
rowing and hardening itself more and more into a mere 
pulsation of desire and satisfaction that had no relation 
to any other being. His life had reduced itself to the 
mere functions of weaving and hoarding, without any 
contemplation of an end towards which the functions 
tended. The same sort of process has perhaps been 
undergone by wiser men, when they have been cut oft 
from faith and love, — only, instead of a loom and a heap 
of guineas, they have had some erudite research, some 
ingenious project, or some well-knit theory. Strangely 
Marner’s face and figure shrank and bent themselves into 
a constant mechanical relation to the objects of his life, 
so that he produced the same sort of impression as a 
handle or a crooked tube, which has no meaning stand¬ 
ing apart. The prominent eyes that used to look trust- 

1 Beds filled with woollen refuse and old cloth torn up and matted 
together in lumps. 

2 In King Alfred’s days (871-901) many houses had no doors to 
them at all, and crime was rare. 


26 


SILAS MARNER. 


ing and dreamy, now looked as if they had been made 
to see only one kind of thing that was very small, like 
tiny grain, for which they hunted everywhere: and he 
was so withered and yellow, that, though he was not yet 
forty, the children always called him “ Old Master 
Marner.” 

Yet even in this stage of withering a little incident hap¬ 
pened, which showed that the sap of affection was not all 
gone. It was one of his daily tasks to fetch his water 
from a well a couple of fields off, and for this purpose, 
ever since he came to Raveloe, he had had a brown 
earthenware pot, which he held as his most precious 
utensil among the very few conveniences he had granted 
himself. It had been his companion for twelve years, 
always standing on the same spot, always lending its 
handle to him in the early morning, so that its form had an 
expression for him of willing helpfulness, and the impress 
of its handle on his palm gave a satisfaction mingled 
with that of having the fresh clear water. One day as he 
was returning from the well, he stumbled against the step 
of the stile, and his brcwn pot, falling with force against 
the stones that overarched the ditch below him, was 
broken in three pieces. Silas picked up the pieces and 
carried them home with grief in his heart. The brown 
pot could never be of use to him any more, but he stuck 
the bits together and propped the ruin in its old place 
for a memorial. 

This is the history of Silas Marner until the fifteenth 
year after he came to Raveloe. The livelong day he sat 
in his loom, his ear filled with its monotony, his eyes 
bent close down on the slow growth of sameness in the 


SILAS MARNER. 


2 7 


brownish web, his muscles moving with such even repe« 
tition that their pause seemed almost as much a con¬ 
straint as the holding of his breath. But at night came 
his revelry; at night he closed his shutters, and made 
fast his doors, and drew forth his gold. Long ago the 
heap of coins had become too large for the iron pot to 
hold them, and he had made for them two thick leather 
bags, which wasted no room in their resting-place, but 
lent themselves flexibly to every corner. How the 
guineas shone as they came pouring out of the dark 
leather mouths ! The silver bore no large proportion in 
amount to the gold, because the long pieces of linen 
which formed his chief work were always partly paid for 
in gold, and out of the silver he supplied his own bodily 
wants, choosing always the shillings and sixpences to 
spend in this way. He loved the guineas best, but he 
would not change the silver—the crowns and half-crowns 
that were his own earnings, begotten by his labour; he 
loved them all. He spread them out in heaps and 
bathed his hands in them; then he counted them and 
set them up in regular piles, and felt their rounded out¬ 
line between his thumb and fingers, and thought fondly 
of the guineas that were only half earned by the work in 
his loom, as if they had been unborn children — thought 
of the guineas that were coming slowly through the com¬ 
ing years, through all his life, which spread far away 
before him, the end quite hidden by countless days of 
weaving. No wonder his thoughts were still with his 
loom and his money when he made his journeys through 
the fields and the lanes to fetch and carry home his 
Work, so that his steps never wandered to the hedge- 


2 8 


SILAS MARNER. 


banks and the lane-side in search of the once familiar 
herbs: these too belonged to the past, from which his 
life had shrunk away, like a rivulet that has sunk far 
down from the grassy fringe of its old breadth into a 
little shivering thread, that cuts a groove for itself in the 
barren sand. 

But about the Christmas of that fifteenth year, a sec¬ 
ond great change came over Marner’s life, and his history 
became blent in a singular manner with the life of his 
neighbours 


CHAPTER III. 


The greatest man in Raveloe was Squire Cass, who 
lived in the large red house with the handsome flight 
of stone steps in front and the high stables behind it, 
nearly opposite the church. He was only one among 
several landed parishioners, but he alone was honored 
with the title of Squire : for though Mr. Osgood’s family 
was also understood to be of timeless origin—the Raveloe 
imagination having never ventured back to that fearful 
blank when there were no Osgoods — still, he merely 
owned the farm he occupied ,* whereas Squire Cass had a 
tenant or two, who complained of the game to him quite 
as if he had been a lord. 

It was still that glorious war-time 1 which was felt to be 
a peculiar favour of Providence towards the landed in¬ 
terest, and the fall of prices had not yet come to carry 
the race of small squires and yeomen 2 down that road to 
ruin for which extravagant habits and bad husbandry 
were plentifully anointing their wheels. I am speaking 
now in relation to Raveloe and the parishes that re¬ 
sembled it; for our old-fashioned, country life had many 
different aspects, as all life must have when it is spread 

1 For the economic condition of England at this period (1793-1815) 
see Green’s History of the English People , chap, x, p. 789. 

2 Yeomen held free land of the value of 40J a year, which qualified 
them to serve on juries, etc. 


29 


3 ° 


SILAS MARNER. 


over a various surface, and breathed on variously by 
multitudinous currents, from the winds of heaven to the 
thoughts of men, which are forever moving and crossing 
each other with incalculable results. Raveloe lay low 
among the bushy trees and the rutted lanes, aloof from the 
current of industrial energy and Puritan earnestness ; the 
rich ate and drank freely, and accepted gout and apo¬ 
plexy as things that ran mysteriously in respectable fami¬ 
lies, and the poor thought that the rich were entirely in 
the right of it to lead a jolly life; besides, their feasting 
caused a multiplication of orts , 1 which were the heir¬ 
looms of the poor. Betty Jay scented the boiling of 
Squire Cass’s hams, but her longing was arrested by the 
unctuous liquor in which they were boiled ; and when the 
seasons brought round the great merry-makings, they 
were regarded on all hands as a fine thing for the poor. 
For the Raveloe feasts were like the rounds of beef and 
the barrels of ale — they were on a large scale, and 
lasted a good while, especially in the winter-time. After 
ladies had packed up their best gowns and top-knots 2 in 
bandboxes, and had incurred the risk of fording streams 
on pillions 3 with the precious burden in rainy or snowy 
weather, when there was no knowing how high the water 
would rise, it was not to be supposed that they looked 
forward to a brief pleasure. On this ground it was al¬ 
ways contrived in the dark seasons, when there was little 

1 Any refuse or fragments, such as broken food, ends of loaves, the 
knuckle bone of a ham, etc. 

2 Knots worn by women on the tops of their heads. 

8 Cushions used by women when riding on horseback behind theii 
escorts. 


SILAS MARNER. 


3 * 


work to be done, and the hours were long, that several 
neighbours should keep open house in succession. So 
soon as Squire Cass’s standing dishes diminished in 
plenty and freshness, his guests had nothing to do but 
to walk a little higher up the village to Mr. Osgood’s, at 
the Orchards, and they found hams and chines uncut, 
pork-pies with the scent of the fire in them, spun butter 1 in 
all its freshness — everything, in fact, that appetites at 
leisure could desire, in perhaps greater perfection, though 
not in greater abundance, than at Squire Cass’s. 

For the Squire’s wife had died long ago, and the Red 
House was without that presence of the wife and mother 
which is the fountain of wholesome love and fear in par¬ 
lour and kitchen; and this helped to account not only 
for there being more profusion than finished excellence 
in the holiday provisions, but also for the frequency with 
which the proud Squire condescended to preside in the 
parlour of the Rainbow rather than under the shadow of 
his own dark wainscot; perhaps, also, for the fact that 
his sons had turned out rather ill. Raveloe was not a 
place where moral censure was severe, but it was thought 
a weakness in the Squire that he had kept all his sons at 
home in idleness; and though some licence was to be 
allowed to young men whose fathers could afford it, 
people shook their heads at the courses of the second 
son Dunstan, commonly called Dunsey Cass, whose taste 
for swapping and betting might turn out to be a sowing 
of something worse than wild oats. To be sure, the 
neighbours said, it was no matter what became of Dunsey 
—a spiteful jeering fellow, who seemed to enjoy his drink 

1 Drawn butter — melted butter. 


SILAS MARNER. 


32 

the more when other people went dry — always provided 
that his doings did not bring trouble on a family like 
Squire Cass’s, with a monument in the church, and tank¬ 
ards older than King George . 1 But it would be a 
thousand pities if Mr. Godfrey, the eldest, a fine open- 
faced good-natured young man who was to come into 
the land some day, should take to going along the same 
road with his brother, as he had seemed to do of late. If 
he went on in that way, he would lose Miss Nancy Lam- 
meter ; for it was well-known that she had looked very 
shyly on him ever since last Whitsuntide twelve month, 
when there was so much talk about his being away from 
home days and days together. There was something 
wrong, more than common — that was quite clear; for 
Mr. Godfrey didn’t look half so fresh-coloured and open 
as he used to do. At one time everybody was saying, 
What a handsome couple he and Miss Nancy Lam meter 
would make ! and if she could come to be mistress at 
the Red House, there would be a fine change, for 
the Lammeters had been brought up in that way, that 
they never suffered a pinch of salt to be wasted, and yet 
everybody in their household had of the best, according 
to his place. Such a daughter-in-law would be a saving 
to the old Squire, if she never brought a penny to her 
fortune; for it was to be feared that, notwithstanding his 
incomings, there were more holes in his pocket than the 
one where he put his own hand in. But if Mr. Godfrey 
didn’t turn over a new leaf, he might say “ Good-bye ” to 
Miss Nancy Lammeter. 

It was the once hopeful Godfrey who was standing, with 
1 George III., who began to reign in 1760 and died in 1820. 


SILAS MARNER. 


33 


his hands in his side-pockets and his back to the fire, in 
the dark wainscoted parlour, one late November after¬ 
noon in that fifteenth year of Silas Marner’s life at Raveloe. 
The fading grey light fell dimly on the walls decorated 
with guns, whips, and foxes r brushes, on coats and hats 
flung on the chairs, on tankards sending forth a scent of 
flat ale, and on a half-choked fire, with pipes propped 
up in the chimney-corners : signs of a domestic life des¬ 
titute of any hallowing charm, with which the look of 
gloomy vexation on Godfrey’s blond face was in sad 
accordance. He seemed to be waiting and listening for 
some one’s approach, and presently the sound of a heavy 
step, with an accompanying whistle, was heard across 
the large empty entrance-hall. 

The door opened, and a thick-set, heavy-looking young 
man entered, with the flushed face and the gratuitously 
elated bearing which mark the first stage of intoxication. 
It was Dunsey, and at the sight of him Godfrey’s face » 
parted with some of its gloom to take on the more active 
expression of hatred. The handsome brown spaniel that 
lay on the hearth retreated under the chimney-corner. 

“ Well, Master Godfrey, what do you want with me ? ” 
said Dunsey, in a mocking tone. “ You’re my elders and 
betters, you know ; I was obliged to come when you sent 
for me.” 

“ Why, this is what I want — and just shake yourself 
sober and listen, will you ? ” said Godfrey, savagely 
He had himself been drinking more than was good for 
him, trying to turn his gloom into uncalculating anger. 
u I want to tell you, I must hand over that rent of 
Fowler’s to the Squire, or .else tell him I gave it you; 

D 


34 


SILAS MARNER. 


for he’s threatening to distrain 1 for it, and it’ll all be out 
soon, whether I tell him or not. He said, just now, 
before he went out, he should send word to Cox to dis¬ 
train, if Fowler didn’t come and pay up his arrears this 
week. The Squire’s short o’ cash, and in no humour to 
stand any nonsense; and you know what he threatened, 
if ever he found you making away with his money again. 
So, see and get the money, and pretty quickly, will 
you ? ” 

“ Oh ! ” said Dunsey, sneeringly, coming nearer to 
his brother, and looking in his face. “ Suppose, now, 
you get the money yourself, and save me the trouble, eh ? 
Since you was so kind as to hand it over to me, you’ll 
not refuse me the kindness to pay it back for me: it 
was your brotherly love made you do it, you know.” 

Godfrey bit his lip and clenched his fist. “Don’t 
come near me with that look, else I’ll knock you down.” 

* “Oh, no, you won’t,” said Dunsey, turning away on 
his heel, however. “ Because I’m such a good-natured 
brother, you know. I might get you turned out of house 
and home, and cut off with a shilling any day. I might 
tell the Squire how his handsome son was married to that 
nice young woman, Molly Farren, and was very unhappy 
because he couldn’t live with his drunken wife, and I 
should slip into your place as comfortable as could be. 
But you see, I don’t do it — I’m so easy and good- 
natured. You’ll take any trouble for me. You’ll get the 
hundred pounds for me—I know you will.” 

“How can I get the money?” said Godfrey, quiver¬ 
ing. “ I haven’t a shilling to bless myself with. And it’s 
1 To seize for debt. 


SILAS MARNER. 


35 


a lie that you’d slip into my place; you’d get yourself 
turned out too, that’s all. For if you begin telling tales, 
I’ll follow. Bob’s my father’s favourite — you know 
that very well. He’d only think himself well rid of 
you.” 

“ Never mind,” said Dunsey, nodding his head side¬ 
ways as he looked out of the window. “ It ’ud be very 
pleasant to me to go in your company — you’re such a 
handsome brother, and we’ve always been so fond of 
quarrelling with one another, I shouldn’t know what to do 
without you. But you’d like better for us both to stay at 
home together; I know you would. So you’ll manage to 
get that little sum o’ money, and I’ll bid you good-bye, 
though I’m sorry to part.” 

Dunstan was moving off, but Godfrey rushed after him 
and seized him by the arm, saying, with an oath — 

“ I tell you, I have no money : I can get no money.” 

“ Borrow of old Kimble.” 

“ I tell you, he won’t lend me any more, and I shan’t 
ask him.” 

“ Well, then, sell Wildfire.” 

“Yes, that’s easy talking. I must have the money 
directly.” 

“ Well, you’ve only got to ride him to the hunt to¬ 
morrow. There’ll be Bryce and Keating there, for sure. 
You’ll get more bids than one.” 

“I daresay, and get back home at eight o’clock, 
splashed up to the chin. I’m going to Mrs. Osgood’s 
birthday dance.” 

“ Oho ! ” said Dunsey, turning his head on one side, 
and trying to speak in a small mincing treble. “And 


3^ 


SILAS MARKER. 


there's sweet Miss Nancy coming; and we shall dance 
with her, and promise never to be naughty again, and be 
taken into favour, and — ” 

“ Hold your tongue about Miss Nancy, you fool,” said 
Godfrey, turning red, “ else I’ll throttle you.” 

“What for?” said Dunsey, still in an artificial tone, 
but taking a whip from the table and beating the butt-end 
of it on his palm. “You’ve a very good chance. I’d 
advise you to creep up her sleeve again: it ’ud be saving 
time, if Molly should happen to take a drop too much 
laudanum some day, and make a widower of you. Miss 
Nancy wouldn’t mind being a second, if she didn’t know 
it. And you’ve got a good-natured brother, who’ll keep 
your secret well, because you’ll be so very obliging to 
him.” 

“ I’ll tell you what it is,” said Godfrey, quivering, and 
pale again. “ My patience is pretty near at an end. If 
you’d a little more sharpness in you, you might know that 
you may urge a man a bit too far, and make one leap as 
easy as another. I don’t know but what it is so now : I 
may as well tell the Squire everything myself—I should 
get you off my back, if I get nothing else. And, after 
all, he’ll know some time. She’s been threatening to 
come herself and tell him. So, don’t flatter yourself that 
your secrecy’s worth any price you choose to ask. You 
drain me of money till I have got nothing to pacify her 
with, and she’ll do as she threatens some day. It’s all 
one. I’ll tell my father everything myself, and you may 
go to the devil.” 

Dunsey perceived that he had overshot his mark, and 
that there was a point at which even the hesitating God- 



SILAS MARNER. 


37 

frey might be driven into decision. But he said with an 
air of unconcern — 

“ As you please; but I’ll have a draught of ale first.” 
And ringing the bell, he threw himself across two chairs, 
and began to rap the window-seat with the handle of his 
whip. 

Godfrey stood, still with his back to the fire, uneasily 
moving his fingers among the contents of his side-pockets, 
and looking at the floor. That big muscular frame of his 
held plenty of animal courage, but helped him to no de¬ 
cision when the dangers to be braved were such as could 
neither be knocked down nor throttled. His natural 
irresolution and moral cowardice were exaggerated by a 
position in which dreaded consequences seemed to press 
equally on all sides, and his irritation had no sooner pro¬ 
voked him to defy Dunstan and anticipate all possible 
betrayals, than the miseries he must bring on himself by 
such a step seemed more unendurable to him than the 
present evil. The results of confession were not contin¬ 
gent, they were certain; whereas betrayal was not cer¬ 
tain. From the near vision of that certainty he fell back 
on suspense and vacillation with a sense of repose. The 
disinherited son of a small squire, equally disinclined to 
dig and to beg, was almost as helpless as an uprooted 
tree, which, by the favour of earth and sky, has grown to 
a handsome bulk on the spot where it first shot upward. 
Perhaps it would have been possible to think of digging 
with some cheerfulness if Nancy Lammeter were to be 
won on those terms; but since he must irrevocably lose 
her as well as the inheritance, and must break every tie 
but the one that degraded him and left him without mo 


38 


SILAS MARNER. 


tive for trying to recover his better self, he could imagine 
no future for himself on the other side of confession but 
that of “ ’listing for a soldier ” — the most desperate step, 
short of suicide, in the eyes of respectable families. No I 
he would rather trust to casualties than to his own re¬ 
solve — rather go on sitting at the feast, and sipping the 
wine he loved, though with the sword 1 hanging over him 
and terror in his heart, than rush away into the cold dark¬ 
ness where there was no pleasure left. The utmost con¬ 
cession to Dunstan about the horse began to seem easy, 
compared with the fulfilment of his own threat. But his 
pride would not let him recommence the conversation 
otherwise than by continuing the quarrel. Dunstan was 
waiting for this, and took his ale in shorter draughts than 
usual. 

“ It’s just like you,” Godfrey burst out, in a bitter tone, 
“to talk about my selling Wildfire in that cool way — 
the last thing I’ve got to call my own, and the best bit 
of horse-flesh I ever had in my life. And if you’d got a 
spark of pride in you, you’d be ashamed to see the stables 
emptied, and everybody sneering about it. But it’s my 
belief you’d sell yourself, if it was only for the pleasure 
of making somebody feel he’d got a bad bargain.” 

“ Ay, ay,” said Dunstan, very placably, “ you do me 
justice, I see. You know I’m a jewel for ’ticing people 
into bargains. For which reason I advise you to let 
me sell Wildfire. I’d ride him to the hunt to-morrow 
for you, with pleasure. I shouldn’t look so handsome as 
you in the saddle, but it’s the horse they’ll bid for, and 
not the rider.” ^ 

- See the famous story of Damocles. 


SILAS MARNER. 


39 


“Yes, I dare say — trust my horse to you ! ” 

“ As you please,” said Dunstan, rapping the window- 
seat again with an air of great unconcern. “ It’s you 
have got to pay Fowler’s money: it’s none of my busi¬ 
ness. You received the money from him when you went 
to Bramcote, and you told the squire it wasn’t paid. I’d 
nothing to do with that; you chose to be so obliging as 
to give it me, that was all. If you don’t want to pay the 
money, let it alone; it’s all one to me. But I was will¬ 
ing to accommodate you by undertaking to sell the horse 
seeing it’s not convenient to you to go so far to-morrow.” 

Godfrey was silent for some moments. He would 
have liked to spring on Dunstan, wrench the whip from 
his hand, and flog him to within an inch of his life; and 
no bodily fear could have deterred him; but he was 
mastered by another sort of fear, which was fed by feel¬ 
ings stronger even than his resentment. When he spoke 
again it was in a half-conciliatory tone. 

“Well, you mean no nonsense about the horse, eh? 
You’ll sell him all fair, and hand over the money? If 
you don’t, you know, everything ’ull go to smash, for 
I’ve got nothing else to trust to. And you’ll have less 
pleasure in pulling the house over my head, when your 
own skull’s to be broken too.” 

“ Ay, ay,” said Dunstan, rising, “ all right. I thought 
you’d come round. I’m the fellow to bring old Bryce 
up to the scratch. I’ll get you a hundred and twenty for 
him, if I get you a penny.” 

“ But it’ll perhaps rain cats and dogs to-morrow, as it 
did yesterday, and then you can’t go,” said Godfrey, hardly 
knowing whether he wished for that obstacle or not. 


40 


SILAS MARNER. 


“ Not it}' said Dunstan. “ I’m always lucky in my 
weather. It might rain if you wanted to go yourself. 
You never hold trumps, you know — I always do. 
You’ve got the beauty, you see, and I’ve got the luck, 
so you must keep me by you for your crooked sixpence ; 
you’ll ne-vt r get along without me.” 

“ Confound you, hold your tongue ! ” said Godfrey, 
impetuously. “ And take care to keep sober to-morrow, 
else you’ll get pitched on your head coming home, and 
Wildfire might be the worse for it.” 

“ Make your tender heart easy,” said Dunstan, open¬ 
ing the door. “ You never knew me see double when 
I’d got a bargain to make; it ’ud spoil the fun. Besides, 
whenever I fall, I’m warranted to fall on my legs.” 

With that, Dunstan slammed the door behind him, 
and left Godfrey to that bitter rumination on his per¬ 
sonal circumstances which was now unbroken from day 
to day save by the excitement of sporting, drinking, card¬ 
playing, or the rarer and less oblivious pleasure of seeing 
Miss Nancy Lammeter. The subtle and varied pains 
springing from the higher sensibility that accompanies 
higher culture are perhaps less pitiable than that dreary 
absence of impersonal enjoyment and consolation which 
leaves ruder minds to the perpetual urgent companion¬ 
ship of their own griefs and discontents. The lives of 
those rural forefathers, whom we are apt to think very 
prosaic figures —men whose only work was to ride round 
their land, getting heavier and heavier in their saddles, 
and who passed the rest of their days in the, half-listless 
gratification of senses dulled by monotony — had a cer¬ 
tain pathos in them nevertheless. Calamities came to 


SILAS MARNER. 


41 


them , too, and their early errors carried hard conse* 
quences : perhaps the love of some sweet maiden, the 
image of purity, order, and calm, had opened their eyes 
to the vision of a life in which the days would not seem 
too long, even without rioting; but the maiden was lost, 
and the vision passed away, and then what was left to 
them, especially when they had become too heavy for the 
hunt, or for carrying a gun over the furrows, but to drink 
and get merry, or to drink and get angry, so that they 
might be independent of variety, and say over again with 
eager emphasis the things they had said already any time 
that twelve-month? Assuredly, among these flushed 
and dull-eyed men there were some whom—thanks to 
their native human-kindness — even riot could never 
drive into brutality; men who, when their cheeks were 
fresh, had felt the keen point of sorrow or remorse, had 
been pierced by the reeds they leaned on, or had lightly 
put their limbs in fetters from which no struggle could 
loose them; and under these sad circumstances, com¬ 
mon to us all, their thoughts could find no resting-place 
outside the ever-trodden round of their own petty 
history. 

That, at least, was the condition of Godfrey Cass in 
this six-and-twentieth year of his life. A movement of 
compunction, helped by those small indefinable influ¬ 
ences which every personal relation exerts on a pliant 
nature, had urged him into a secret marriage, which was 
a blight on his life. It was an ugly story of low passion, 
delusion, and waking from delusion, which needs not to 
be dragged from the privacy of Godfrey’s bitter memory. 
He had long known that the delusion was partly due to 


42 


SILAS MARNER. 


a trap laid for him by Dunstan, who saw in his brother’s 
degrading marriage the means of gratifying at once his 
jealous hate and his cupidity. And if Godfrey could 
have felt himself simply a victim, the iron bit that des¬ 
tiny had put into his mouth would have chafed him less 
intolerably. If the curses he muttered half aloud when 
he was alone had had no other object than Dunstan’s 
diabolical cunning, he might have shrunk less from the 
consequences of avowal. But he had something else to 
curse — his own vicious folly, which now seemed as mad 
and unaccountable to him as almost all our follies and 
vices do when their promptings have long passed away. 
For four years he had thought of Nancy Lammeter, and 
wooed her with tacit patient worship, as the woman who 
made him think of the future with joy : she would be his 
wife, and would make home lovely to him, as his father’s 
home had never been; and it would be easy, when she 
was always near, to shake off those foolish habits that 
were no pleasures, but only a feverish way of annulling 
vacancy. Godfrey’s was an essentially domestic nature, 
bred up in a home where the hearth had no smiles, and 
where the daily habits were not chastised by the presence 
of household order. His easy disposition made him fall 
in unresistingly with the family courses, but the need of 
some tender permanent affection, the longing for some 
influence that would make the good he preferred easy to 
pursue, caused the neatness, purity, and liberal orderli¬ 
ness of the Lammeter household, sunned by the smile of 
Nancy, to seem like those fresh bright hours of the 
morning when temptations go to sleep and leave the 
ear open to the voice of the good angel, inviting to in- 


SILAS MARNER. 


43 


dustry, sobriety, and peace. And yet the hope of this 
paradise had not been enough to save him from a course 
which shut him out of it forever. Instead of keeping 
fast hold of the strong silken rope by which Nancy 
would have drawn him safe to the green banks where it 
was easy to step firmly, he had let himself be dragged 
back into mud and slime, in which it was useless to 
struggle. He had made ties for himself which robbed 
him of all wholesome motive and were a constant exas¬ 
peration. 

Still, there was one position worse than the present; 
it was the position he would be in when the ugly secret 
was disclosed; and the desire that continually triumphed 
over every other was that of warding off the evil day, 
when he would have to bear the consequences of his 
father’s violent resentment for the wound inflicted on his 
family pride — would have, perhaps, to turn his back on 
that hereditary ease and dignity, which, after all, was a 
sort of reason for living, and would carry with him the 
certainty that he was banished forever from the sight and 
esteem of Nancy Lammeter. The longer the interval, 
the more chance there was of deliverance from some, at 
least, of the hateful consequences to which he had sold 
himself; the more opportunities remained for him to 
snatch the strange gratification of seeing Nancy, and 
gathering some faint indications of her lingering regard. 
Towards this gratification he was impelled, fitfully, every 
now and then, after having passed weeks in which he 
had avoided her as the far-off bright-winged prize that 
only made him spring forward and find his chain all the 
more galling. One of those fits of yearning was on him 


44 


SILAS MARNER. 


now, and it would have been strong enough to have per¬ 
suaded him to trust Wildfire to Dunstan rather than dis¬ 
appoint the yearning, even if he had not had another 
reason for his disinclination towards the morrow’s hunt. 
That other reason was the fact that the morning’s meet 
was near Batherley, the market-town where the unhappy 
woman lived, whose image became more odious to him 
every day; and to his thought the whole vicinage was 
haunted by her. The yoke a man creates for himself 
by wrong-doing will breed hate in the kindliest nature; 
and the good-humoured, affectionate-hearted Godfrey 
Cass was fast becoming a bitter man, visited by cruel 
wishes, that seemed to enter, and depart, and enter 
again, like demons who had found in him a ready- 
garnished home. 

What was he to do this evening to pass the time? 
He might as well go to the Rainbow, and hear the talk 
about the cock-fighting: everybody was there, and what 
else was there to be done? Though, for his own part, 
he did not care a button for cock-fighting. Snuff, the 
brown spaniel, who had placed herself in front of him. 
and had been watching him for some time, now jumped 
up in impatience for the expected caress. But Godfrey 
thrust her away without looking at her, and left the room, 
followed humbly by the unresenting Snuff — perhaps be¬ 
cause she saw no other career open to her. 


CHAPTER IV. 


Dunstan Cass, setting off in the raw morning, at the 
judiciously quiet pace of a man who is obliged to ride to 
cover on his hunter, had to take his way along the lane 
which, at its farther extremity, passed by the piece of un¬ 
enclosed ground called the Stone-pit, where stood the 
cottage, once a' stone-cutter’s shed, now for fifteen years 
inhabited by Silas Marner. The spot looked very dreary 
at this season, with the moist trodden clay about it, and 
the red, muddy water high up in the deserted quarry. 
That was Dunstan’s first thought as he approached it; 
the second was, that the old fool of a weaver, whose 
loom he heard rattling already, had a great deal of 
money hidden somewhere. How was it that he, Dun¬ 
stan Cass, who had often heard talk of Marner’s miserli¬ 
ness, had never thought of suggesting to Godfrey that 
he should frighten or persuade the old fellow into lending 
the money on the excellent security of the young Squire’s 
prospects ? The resource occurred to him now as so easy 
and agreeable, especially as Marner’s hoard was likely to 
be large enough to leave Godfrey a handsome surplus 
beyond his immediate needs, and enable him to accom¬ 
modate his faithful brother, that he had almost turned 
his horse’s head towards home again. Godfrey would be 
ready enough to accept the suggestion : he would snatch 
45 


46 


SILAS MARNER. 


eagerly at a plan that might save him from parting with 
Wildfire. But when Dunstan’s meditation reached this 
point, the inclination to go on grew strong and prevailed. 
He didn’t want to give Godfrey that pleasure: he pre¬ 
ferred that Master Godfrey should be vexed. Moreover, 
Dunstan enjoyed the self-important consciousness of 
having a horse to sell, and the opportunity of driving a 
bargain, swaggering, and possibly taking somebody in. 
He might have all the satisfaction attendant on selling 
his brother’s horse, and not the less have the further sat¬ 
isfaction of setting Godfrey to borrow Marner’s money. 
So he rode on to cover. 

Bryce and Keating were there, as Dunstan was quite 
sure they would be — he was such a lucky fellow. 

“ Heyday,” said Bryce, who had long had his eye on 
Wildfire, “ you’re on your brother’s horse to-day; how’s 
that?” 

“ Oh, I’ve swapped with him,” said Dunstan, whose 
delight in lying, grandly independent of utility, was not 
to be diminished by the likelihood that his hearer would 
not believe him — “Wildfire’s mine now.” 

“ What! has he swapped with you for that big-boned 
hack of yours?” said Bryce, quite aware that he should 
get another lie in answer. 

“ Oh, there was a little account between us,” said 
Dunstan, carelessly, “ and Wildfire made it even. I ac¬ 
commodated him by taking the horse, though it was 
against my will, for I’d got an itch for a mare o’ Jorton’s 
— as rare a bit o’ blood as ever you threw your leg 
across. But I shall keep Wildfire, now I’Ve got him, 
though I’d a bid of a hundred and fifty for him the other 


SILAS MARNER. 


47 


day, from a man over at Flitton — he’s buying for Lord 
Cromleck — a fellow with a cast 1 in his eye, and a green 
waistcoat. But I mean to stick to Wildfire : I shan’t 
get a better at a fence in a hurry. The mare’s got more 
blood, but she’s a bit too weak in the hind quarters.” 

Bryce of course divined that Dunstan wanted to sell 
the horse, and Dunstan knew that he divined it (horse¬ 
dealing is only one of many human transactions carried 
on in this ingenious manner) ; and they both considered 
that the bargain was in its first stage, when Bryce replied 
ironically — 

“I wonder at that now; I wonder you mean to keep 
him; for I never heard of a man who didn’t want to 
sell his horse getting a bid of half as much again as the 
horse was worth. You’ll be lucky if you get a hundred.” 

Keating rode up now, and the transaction became 
more complicated. It ended in the purchase of the 
horse by Bryce for a hundred and twenty, to be paid 
on the delivery of Wildfire, safe and sound, at the Bath- 
erley stables. It did occur to Dunsey that it might be 
wise for him to give up the day’s hunting, proceed at 
once to Batherley, and, having waited for Bryce’s return, 
hire a horse »to carry him home with the money in his 
pocket. But the inclination for a run, encouraged by 
confidence in his luck, and by a draught of brandy from 
his pocket-pistol at the conclusion of the bargain, was 
not easy to overcome, especially with a horse under him 
that would take the fences to the admiration of the field. 
Dunstan, however, took one fence too many, and got his 
horse pierced with a hedge-stake. His own ill-favoured 

1 A squint. 


48 


SILAS MARNER. 


person, which was quite unmarketable, escaped without in¬ 
jury ; but poor Wildfire, unconscious of his price, turned 
on his flank and painfully panted his last. It happened 
that Dunstan, a short time before, having had to get down 
to. arrange his stirrup, had muttered a good many curses 
at this interruption, which had thrown him in the rear 
of the hunt near the moment of glory, and under this 
exasperation had taken the fences more blindly. He 
would soon have been up with the hounds again, when 
the fatal accident happened; and hence he was between 
eager riders in advance, not troubling themselves about 
what happened behind them, and far-off stragglers, who 
were as likely as not to pass quite aloof from the line 
of road in which Wildfire had fallen. Dunstan, whose 
nature it was to care more for immediate annoyances 
than for remote consequences, no sooner recovered his 
legs, and saw that it was all over with Wildfire, than he 
felt a satisfaction at the absence of witnesses to a posi¬ 
tion which no swaggering could make enviable. Rein¬ 
forcing himself, after his shake, with a little brandy and 
much swearing, he walked as fast as he could to a 
coppice 1 on his right hand, through which it occurred 
to him that he could make his way to Batherley without 
danger of encountering any member of the hunt. His 
first intention was to hire a horse there and ride home 
forthwith, for to walk many miles without a gun in his 
hand and along an ordinary road, was as much out of 
the question to him as to other spirited young men of his 
kind. He did not much mind about taking the bad 
news to Godfrey, for he had to offer him at the same 
1 A grove of small trees. 



IT WAS ALL OVER WITH WILDFIRE 





SILAS MARNER. 


49 


time the resource of Marner’s money; and if Godfrey 
kicked, as he always did, at the notion of making a fresh 
debt from which he himself got the smallest share of 
advantage, why, he wouldn’t kick long : Dunstan felt 
sure he could worry Godfrey into anything. The idea 
of Marner’s money kept growing in vividness, now the 
want of it had become immediate; the prospect of hav¬ 
ing to make his appearance with the muddy boots of 
a pedestrian at Batherley, and to encounter the grinning 
queries of stablemen, stood unpleasantly in the way of his 
impatience to be back at Raveloe and carry out his felici¬ 
tous plan ; and a casual visitation of his waistcoat-pocket, 
as he was ruminating, awakened his memory to the fact 
that the two or three small coins his forefinger encoun¬ 
tered there, were of too pale a colour to cover that small 
debt, without payment of which the stable-keeper had 
declared he would never do any more business with 
Dunsey Cass. After all, according to the direction in 
which the run had brought him, he was not so very 
much farther from home than he was from Batherley; 
but Dunsey, not being remarkable for clearness of head, 
was only led to this conclusion by the gradual perception 
that there were other reasons for choosing the unprece¬ 
dented course of walking home. It was now nearly 
four o’clock, and a mist was gathering: the sooner he 
got into the road the better. He remembered having 
crossed the road and seen the finger-post only a little 
while before Wildfire broke down; so, buttoning his 
coat, twisting the lash of his hunting-whip compactly 
round the handle, and rapping the tops of his boots with 
a self-possessed air, as if to assure himself that he was 


5° 


SILAS MARNER. 


not at all taken by surprise, he set off with the sense 
that he was undertaking a remarkable feat of bodily 
exertion, which somehow and at some time he should 
be able to dress up and magnify to the admiration of 
a select circle at the Rainbow. When a young gentle¬ 
man like Dunsey is reduced to so exceptional a mode 
of locomotion as walking, a whip in his hand is a desir¬ 
able corrective to a too bewildering dreamy sense of 
unwontedness in his position; and Dunstan, as he went 
along through the gathering mist, was always rapping 
his whip somewhere. It was Godfrey’s whip, which he 
had chosen to take without leave because it had a gold 
handle; of course no one could see when Dunstan held 
it, that the name Godfrey Cass was cut in deep letters 
on that gold handle — they could only see that it was 
a very handsome whip. Dunsey was not without fear 
that he might meet some acquaintance in whose eyes he 
would cut a pitiable figure, for mist is no screen where 
people get close to each other; but when he at last 
found himself in the well-known Raveloe lanes without 
having met a soul, he silently remarked that that was 
part of his usual good-luck. But now the mist, helped 
by the evening darkness, was more of a screen than he 
desired, for it hid the ruts into which his feet were liable 
to slip — hid everything, so that he had to guide hi: 
steps by dragging his whip along the low bushes in 
advance of the hedgerow. He must soon, he thought, 
be getting near the opening at the Stone-pits : he should 
find it out by the break in the hedgerow. He found 
it out, however, by another circumstance which he 
had not expected — namely, by certain gleams of light, 


SILAS MARNER 


$1 


which he presently guessed to proceed from Silas Mar- 
ner’s cottage. That cottage and the money hidden 
within it had been in his mind continually during his 
walk, and he had been imagining ways of cajoling and 
tempting the weaver to part with the immediate posses¬ 
sion of his money for the sake of receiving interest. 
Dunstan felt as if there must be a little frightening added 
to the cajolery, for his own arithmetical convictions were 
not clear enough to afford him any forcible demonstra¬ 
tion as to the advantages of interest; and as for security, 
he regarded it vaguely as a means of cheating a man 
by making him believe that he would be paid. Alto¬ 
gether, the operation on the miser’s mind was a task 
that Godfrey would be sure to hand over to his more 
daring and cunning brother: Dunstan had made up 
his mind to that; and by the time he saw the light 
gleaming through the chinks of Marner’s shutters, the 
idea of a dialogue with the weaver had become so famil¬ 
iar to him, that it occurred to him as quite a natural 
thing to make the acquaintance forthwith. There might 
be several conveniences attending this course; the 
weaver had possibly got a lantern, and Dunstan was 
tired of feeling his way. He was still nearly three-quar¬ 
ters of a mile from home, and the lane was becoming 
unpleasantly slippery, for the mist was passing into rain. 
He turned up the bank, not without some fear lest he 
might miss the right way, since he was not certain 
whether the light were in front or on the side of the 
cottage. But he felt the ground before him cautiously 
with his whip-handle, and at last arrived safely at 
the door. He knocked loudly, rather enjoying the 


52 


SILAS MARNER. 


idea that the old fellow would be frightened at the 
sudden noise. He heard no movement in reply: all 
was silence in the cottage. Was the weaver gone to bed, 
then? If so, why had he left a light? That was a 
strange forgetfulness in a miser. Dunstan knocked 
still more loudly, and, without pausing for a reply, 
pushed his fingers through the latch-hole, intending 
to shake the door and pull the latch-string up and down, 
not doubting that the door was fastened. But, to his 
surprise, at this double motion the door opened, and he 
found himself in front of a bright fire which lit up every 
corner of the cottage — the bed, the loom, the three 
chairs, and the table — and showed him that Marner 
was not there. 

Nothing at that moment could be much more inviting 
to Dunsey than the bright fire on the brick hearth; he 
walked in and seated himself by it at once. There was 
something in front of the fire, too, that would have been 
inviting to a hungry man, if it had been in a different 
stage of cooking. It was a small bit of pork suspended 
from the kettle-hanger 1 by a string passed through a 
large door-key, in a way known to primitive house¬ 
keepers unpossessed of jacks . 2 But the pork had been 
hung at the farthest extremity of the hanger, apparently 
to prevent the roasting from proceeding too rapidly dur¬ 
ing the owner’s absence. The old staring simpleton 
had hot meat for his supper, then? thought Dunstan. 
People had always said he lived on mouldy bread, on 

1 An iron bar fixed transversely in the chimney. 

2 A clockwork machine by which the spit — the hook or rod on 
Which the roasting meat is impaled — is kept constantly turning. 


SILAS MARNER. 


53 


purpose to check his appetite. But where could he be 
at this time, and on such an evening, leaving his supper 
in this stage of preparation, and his door unfastened? 
Dunstan’s own recent difficulty in making his way sug¬ 
gested to him that the weaver had perhaps gone outside 
his cottage to fetch in fuel, or for some such brief pur¬ 
pose, and had slipped into the Stone-pit. That was an 
interesting idea to Dunstan, carrying consequences of 
entire novelty. If the weaver was dead, who had a right 
to his money ? Who would know where his money was 
hidden? Who would know that anybody had come to 
take it away ? He went no farther into the subtleties of 
evidence : the pressing question, “ Where is the money? ” 
now took such entire possession of him as to make 
him quite forget that the weaver’s death was not a cer¬ 
tainty. A dull mind, once arriving at an inference that 
flatters a desire, is rarely able to retain the impression 
that the notion from which the inference started was 
purely problematic. And Dunstan’s mind was as dull 
as the mind of a possible felon usually is. There were 
only three hiding-places where he had ever heard of 
cottagers’ hoards being found; the thatch, the bed, and 
a hole in the floor. Marner’s cottage had no thatch ; 1 
and Dunstan’s first act, after a train of thought made 
rapid by the stimulus of cupidity, was to go up to the 
bed; but while he did so, his eyes travelled eagerly 
over the floor, where the bricks, distinct in the firelight, 
were discernible under the sprinkling of sand. But not 
everywhere ; for there was one spot, and one only, which 

1 The roofs of the humbler cottages are in many country places still 
covered with straw, rushes, or dried, reedy grass. 


54 


SILAS MARNER. 


was quite covered with sand, and sand showing the 
marks of fingers, which had apparently been careful to 
spread it over a given space. It was near the treddles 
of the loom. In an instant Dunstan darted to that spot, 
swept away the sand with his whip, and, inserting the 
thin end of the hook between the bricks, found that 
they were loose. In haste he lifted up two bricks, and 
saw what he had no doubt was the object of his search; 
for what could there be but money in those two leathern 
bags ? And, from their weight, they must be filled with 
guineas. Dunstan felt round the hole, to be certain 
that it held no more; then hastily replaced the bricks, 
and spread the sand over them. Hardly more than fi/e 
minutes had passed since he entered the cottage, but 
it seemed to Dunstan like a long while; and though he 
was without any distinct recognition of the possibility 
that Marner might be alive, and might re-enter the cot¬ 
tage at any moment, he felt an undefinable dread laying 
Aold on him, as he rose to his feet with the bags in his 
hand. He would hasten out into the darkness, and 
then consider what he should do with the bags. He 
closed the door behind him immediately, that he might 
shut in the stream of light; a few steps would be enough 
to carry him beyond betrayal by the gleams from the 
shutter-chinks and the latch-hole. The rain and dark¬ 
ness had got thicker, and he was glad of it; though it 
was awkward walking with both hands filled, so that it 
was as much as he could do to grasp his whip along 
with one of the bags. But when he had gone a yard 
idt two, he might take his time. So he stepped forward 
into the darkness. 


CHAPTER V. 


When Dunstan Cass turned his back on the cottage, 
Silas Marner was not more than a hundred yards away 
from it, plodding along from the village with a sack 
thrown round his shoulders as an over-coat, and with a 
horn lantern in his hand. His legs were weary, but his 
mind was at ease, free from the presentiment of change. 
The sense of security more frequently springs from habit 
than from conviction, and for this reason it often subsists 
after such a change in the conditions as might have been 
expected to suggest alarm. The lapse of time during 
which a given event has not happened, is, in this logic 
of habit, constantly alleged as a reason why the event 
should never happen, even when the lapse of time is 
precisely the added condition which makes the event 
imminent. A man will tell you that he has worked in a 
mine for forty years unhurt by an accident as a reason 
why he should apprehend no danger, though the roof is 
beginning to sink; and it is often observable, that the 
older a man gets, the more difficult it is to him to retain 
a believing conception of his own death. This influence 
of habit was necessarily strong in a man whose life was so 
monotonous as Marner’s — who saw no new people and 
heard of no new events to keep alive in him the idea of 
the unexpected and the changeful ; and it explains simply 
enough, why his mind could be at ease, though he had 

55 


56 


SILAS MARNER. 


left his house and his treasure more defenceless than 
usual. Silas was thinking with double complacency of his 
supper: first, because it would be hot and savoury; and 
secondly, because it would cost him nothing. For the 
little bit of pork was a present from that excellent house¬ 
wife, Miss Priscilla Lam meter, to whom he had this day 
carried home a handsome piece of linen; and it was only 
on occasion of a present like this, that Silas indulged 
himself with roast-meat. Supper was his favourite meal, 
because it came at his time of revelry, when his heart 
warmed over his gold; whenever he had roast-meat, he 
always chose to have it for supper. But this evening, he 
had no sooner ingeniously knotted his string fast round 
his bit of pork, twisted the string according to rule over 
his door-key, passed it through the handle, and made it 
fast on the hanger, than he remembered that a piece of 
very fine twine was indispensable to his “ setting up ” a 
new piece of work in his loom early in the morning. It 
had slipped his memory, because, in coming from Mr. 
Lammeter’s, he had not had to pass through the village; 
but to lose time by going on errands in the morning was 
out of the question. It was a nasty fog to turn out into, 
but there were things Silas loved better than his own 
comfort; so, drawing his pork to the extremity of the 
hanger, and arming himself with his lantern and his old 
sack, he set out on what, in ordinary weather, would have 
been a twenty minutes’ errand. He could not have 
locked his door without undoing his well-knotted string 
and retarding his supper; it was not worth his while to 
make that sacrifice. What thief would find his way to 
the Stone-pits on such a night as this? and why should 


SILAS MARNER. 


57 


fte come on this particular night, when he had never 
come through all the fifteen years before? These ques¬ 
tions were not distinctly present in Silas’s mind; they 
merely serve to represent the vaguely-felt foundation of 
his freedom from anxiety. 

He reached his door in much satisfaction that his 
errand was done : he opened it, and to his short-sighted 
eyes everything remained as he had left it, except that 
the fire sent out a welcome increase of heat. He trod 
about the floor while putting by his lantern and throwing 
aside his hat and sack, so as to merge the marks of 
Dunstan’s feet on the sand in the marks of his own nailed 
boots. Then he moved his pork nearer to the fire, and 
sat down to the agreeable business of tending the meat 
and warming himself at the same time. 

Any one who had looked at him as the red light shone 
upon his pale face, strange straining eyes, and meagre form, 
would perhaps have understood the mixture of contemptu¬ 
ous pity, dread, and suspicion with which he was regarded 
by his neighbours in Raveloe. Yet few men could be more 
harmless than poor Marner. In his truthful, simple soul, 
not even the growing greed and worship of gold could 
beget any vice directly injurious to others. The light of 
his faith quite put out, and his affections made desolate, 
he had clung with all the force of his nature to his work 
and his money; and like all objects to which a man 
devotes himself, they had fashioned him into correspond¬ 
ence with themselves. His loom, as he wrought in it 
without ceasing, had in its turn wrought on him, and 
confirmed more and more the monotonous craving for its 
monotonous response. His gold, as he hung over it and 


5 » 


SILAS MARNER. 


saw it grow, gathered his power of loving together into 
a hard isolation like its own. 

As soon as he was warm he began to think it would be 
a long while to wait till after supper before he drew out 
his guineas, and it would be pleasant to see them on the 
table before him as he ate his unwonted feast. For joy 
is the best of wine, and Silas’s guineas were a golden 
wine of that sort. 

He rose and placed his candle unsuspectingly on the 
floor near his loom, swept away the sand without noticing 
any change, and removed the bricks. The sight of the 
empty hole made his heart leap violently, but the belief 
chat his gold was gone could not come at once — only 
terror, and the eager effort to put an end to the terror. 
He passed his trembling hand all about the hole, trying 
to think it possible that his eyes had deceived him; then 
he held the candle in the hole and examined it curiously, 
trembling more and more. At last he shook so violently 
that he let fall the candle, and lifted his hands to his 
head, trying to steady himself, that he might think. Had 
he put his gold somewhere else, by a sudden resolution 
last night, and then forgotten it? A man falling into 
dark waters seeks a momentary footing even on sliding 
stones; and Silas, by acting as if he believed.in false 
hopes, warded off the moment of despair. He searched 
in every corner, he turned his bed over, and shook it, and 
kneaded it; he looked in his brick oven where he laid 
his sticks. When there was no other place to be searched, 
he kneeled down again and felt once more all round the 
hole. There was no untried refuge left for a moment’s 
shelter from the terrible truth. 


r>ILAS MARNER. 


59 


Yes, there was a sort of refuge which always comes 
with the prostration of thought under an overpowering 
passion; it was that expectation of impossibilities, that 
belief in contradictory images, which is still distinct from 
madness, because it is capable of being dissipated by the 
external fact. Silas got up from his knees trembling, 
and looking round at the table: didn’t the gold lie there 
after all? The table was bare. Then he turned and 
looked behind him — looked all round his dwelling, seem¬ 
ing to strain his brown eyes after some possible appear¬ 
ance of the bags where he had already sought them in 
vain. He could see every object in his cottage — and 
his gold was not there. 

Again he put his trembling hands to his head, and gave 
a wild ringing scream, the cry of desolation. For a few 
moments after, he stood motionless; but the cry had re¬ 
lieved him from the first maddening pressure of the truth. 
He turned and tottered towards his loom, and got into the 
seat where he worked, instinctively seeking this as the 
strongest assurance of reality. 

And now that all the false hopes had vanished, and 
the first shock of certainty was past, the idea of a thief 
began to present itself, and he entertained it eagerly, 
because a thief might be caught and made to restore the 
gold. The thought brought some new strength with it, 
and he started from his loom to the door. As he opened 
it the rain beat in upon him, for it was falling more and 
more heavily. There were no footsteps to be tracked 
on such a night — footsteps? When had the thief come? 
During Silas’s absence in the day-time the door had been 
locked, and there had been no marks of any inroad on 


6o 


SILAS MARNER. 


his return by daylight. And in the evening, too, he 
said to himself, everything was the same as when he had 
left it. The sand and bricks looked as if they had not 
been moved. Was it a thief who had taken the bags? 
or was it a cruel power that no hands could reach, 
which had delighted in making him a second time deso¬ 
late? He shrank from this vaguer dread, and fixed his 
mind with struggling effort on the robber with hands, who 
could be reached by hands. His thoughts glanced at 
all the neighbours who had made any remarks, or asked 
any questions which he might now regard as a ground of 
suspicion. There was Jem Rodney, a known poacher, 
and otherwise disreputable: he had often met Marner 
in his journeys across the fields, and had said something 
jestingly about the weaver’s money; nay, he had once 
irritated Marner, by lingering at the fire when he called 
to light his pipe, instead of going about his business. 
Jem Rodney was the man — there was ease in the thought. 
Jem could be found and made to restore the money: 
Marner did not want to punish him, but only to get back 
his gold which had gone from him, and left his soul like 
a forlorn traveller on an unknown desert. The robber 
must be laid hold of. Marner’s ideals of legal authority 
were confused, but he felt that he must go and proclaim 
his loss; and the great people in the village — the 
clergyman, the constable, and Squire Cass — would make 
Jem Rodney, or somebody else, deliver up the stolen 
money. He rushed out in the rain under the stimulus 
of this hope, forgetting to cover his head, not caring to 
fasten his door; for he felt as if he had nothing left to 
lose* He ran swiftly, till want of breath compelled him 


SILAS MARNER. 


61 


to slacken his pace as he was entering the village at the 
turning close to the Rainbow. 

The Rainbow, in Marner’s view, was a place of luxu¬ 
rious resort for rich and stout husbands, whose wives had 
superfluous stores of linen; it was the place where he 
was likely to find the powers and dignities of Raveloe, 
and where he could most speedily make his loss public. 
He lifted the latch, and turned into the bright bar or 
kitchen on the right hand, where the less lofty customers 
of the house were in the habit of assembling, the parlour 
on the left being reserved for the more select society in 
which Squire Cass frequently enjoyed the double pleasure 
of conviviality and condescension. But the parlour was 
dark to-night, the chief personages who ornamented its 
circle being all at Mrs. Osgood’s birthday dance, as God¬ 
frey Cass was. And in consequence of this, the party on 
the high-screened seats in the kitchen was more numerous 
than usual; several personages, who would otherwise have 
been admitted into the parlour and enlarged the oppor¬ 
tunity of hectoring and condescension for their betters, 
being content this evening to vary their enjoyment by 
taking their spirits-and-water where they could themselves 
hector and condescend in company that called for beer. 


CHAPTER VI. 


The conversation, which was at a high pitch of ani¬ 
mation when Silas approached the door of the Rainbow, 
had, as usual, been slow and intermittent when the com¬ 
pany first assembled. The pipes began to be puffed in a 
silence which had an air of severity; the more important 
customers, who drank spirits and sat nearest the. fire, 
staring at each other as if a bet were depending on the 
first man who winked; while the beer-drinkers, chiefly 
men in fustian jackets and smock-frocks, kept their eye¬ 
lids down and rubbed their hands across their mouths, as 
if their draughts of beer were a funereal duty attended 
with embarrassing sadness. At last, Mr. Snell, the land 
lord, a man of a neutral disposition, accustomed to stand 
aloof from human differences as those of beings who were 
all alike in need of liquor, broke silence, by saying in a 
doubtful tone to his cousin the butcher — 

“ Some folks ’ud say that was a fine beast you druv in 
yesterday, Bob ? ” 

The butcher, a jolly, smiling, red-haired man, was not 
disposed to answer rashly. He gave a few puffs before 
he spat and replied, “ And they wouldn’t be fur wrong, 
John.” 

After this feeble delusive thaw, the silence set in as 
severely as before. 


SILAS MARNER. 


63 


“ Was it a red Durham ? ” said the farrier , 1 taking up 
the thread of discourse after the lapse of a few minutes. 

The farrier looked at the landlord, and the landlord 
looked at the butcher, as the person who must take the 
responsibility of answering. 

“ Red it was,” said the butcher, in his good-humoured 
husky treble — “and a Durham it was.” 

“ Then you needn’t tell me who you bought it of,” said 
the farrier, looking round with some triumph; “ I know 
who it is has got the red Durhams o’ this country-side. 
And she’d a white star on her brow, I’ll bet a penny?” 
The farrier leaned forward with his hands on his knees as 
he put this question, and his eyes twinkled knowingly. 

“Well; yes — she might,” said the butcher, slowly, 
considering that he was giving a decided affirmative. “ I 
don’t say contrairy.” 

“ I knew that very well,” said the farrier, throwing 
himself backward again, and speaking defiantly; “if / 
don’t know Mr. Lammeter’s cows, I should like to know 
who does — that’s all. And as for the cow you’ve bought, 
bargain or no bargain, I’ve been at the drenching 2 of her 
— contradick me who will.” 

The farrier looked fierce, and the mild butcher’s con¬ 
versational spirit was roused a little. 

“ I’m not for contradicking no man,” he said; “ I’m 
for peace and quietness. Some are for cutting long ribs —- 
I’m for cutting ’em short myself; but / don’t quarrel with 
’em. All I say is, it’s a lovely carkiss — and anybody as was 
reasonable, it ’ud bring tears into their eyes to look at it.” 

1 Blacksmith and veterinary surgeon. 

2 Drenching is the provincial word for giving a dose to a beast. 


SILAS MARNER. 


64 


“ Well, it’s the cow as I drenched, whatever it is,” pur* 
sued the farrier, angrily; “and it was Mr. Lammeter’s 
cow, else you told a lie when you said it was a red 
Durham.” 

“ I tell no lies,” said the butcher, with the same mild 
huskiness as before, “ and I contradick none — not if a 
man was to swear himself black: he’s no meat o’ mine, 
or none o’ my bargains. All I say is, it’s a lovely carkiss. 
And what I say I’ll stick to; but I’ll quarrel wi’ no 
man.” 

“ No,” said the farrier, with bitter sarcasm, looking at 
the company generally; “ and p’rhaps you aren’t pig¬ 
headed ; and p’rhaps you didn’t say the cow was a red 
Durham; and p’rhaps you didn’t say she’d got a star on 
her brow — stick to that, now you’re at it.” 

“ Come, come,” said the landlord ; “let the cow alone. 
The truth lies atween you: you’re both right and both 
wrong, as I allays say. And as for the cow’s being Mr. 
Lammeter’s, I say nothing to that; but this I say, as the 
Rainbow’s the Rainbow. And for the matter o’ that, if 
the talk is to be o’ the Lammeters, you know the most 
upo’ that head, eh, Mr. Macey? You remember when 
first Mr. Lammeter’s father came into these parts, and 
took the Warrens?” 

Mr. Macey, tailor and parish-clerk, the latter of which 
functions rheumatism had of late obliged him to share 
with a small-featured young man who sat opposite him, 
held his white head on one side, and twirled his thumbs 
with an air of complacency, slightly seasoned with criti¬ 
cism. He smiled pityingly, in answer to the landlord’s 
appeal, and said — 


SILAS MARNER. 


65 


“ Ay, ay; I know, I know; but I let other folks talk 
I’ve laid by now, and gev up to the young uns. Ask 
them as have been to school at Tarley; they’ve learnt 
pernouncing; that’s come up since my day.” 

“If you’re pointing at me, Mr. Macey,” said the 
deputy-clerk, with an air of anxious propriety, “ I’m no¬ 
wise a man to speak out of my place. As the psalm 
says — 

* I know what’s right, nor only so, 

But also practise whac I know.’ ” 

“Well, then, I wish you’d keep hold o’ the tune, when 
it’s set for you; if you’re for prac/faing, I wish you’d 
prac//>£ that,” said a large jocose-looking man, an ex¬ 
cellent wheelwright in his week-day capacity, but on 
Sundays leader of the choir. He winked, as he spoke, 
at two of the company, who were known officially as the 
“bassoon ” 1 and the “key-bugle,” in the confidence that 
he was expressing the sense of the musical profession in 
Raveloe. 

Mr. Tookey, the deputy-clerk, who shared the unpopu¬ 
larity common to deputies, turned very red, but replied, 
with careful moderation — “ Mr. Winthrop, if you’ll bring 
me any proof as I’m in the wrong, I’m not the man to say 
I won’t alter. But there’s people set up their own ears 
for a standard, and expect the whole choir to follow ’em. 
There may be two opinions, I hope.” 

“ Ay, ay,” said Mr. Macey, who felt very well satisfied 
with this attack on youthful presumption; “ you’re right 
there, Tookey: there’s allays two ’pinions; there’s the 

1 A bass musical instrument made of wood. 


7 


66 


SILAS MARNER. 


’pinion a man has of himsen, and there’s the ’pinion othei 
folks have on him. There’d be two ’pinions about a 
cracked bell if the bell could hear itself.” 

“ Well, Mr. Macey,” said poor Tookey, serious amidst 
the general laughter, “ I undertook to partially fill up 
the office of parish-clerk by Mr. Crackenthorp’s desire, 
whenever your infirmities should make you unfitting; 
and it’s one of the rights thereof to sing in the choir — 
else why have you done the same yourself ? ” 

“ Ah ! but the old gentleman and you are two folks,” 
said Ben Winthrop. “The old gentleman’s got a gift. 
Why, the Squire used to invite him to take a glass, only to 
hear him sing the ‘Red Rovier’; didn’t he, Mr. Macey? 
It’s a nat’ral gift. There’s my little lad Aaron, he’s got 
a gift — he can sing a tune off straight, like a throstle. 
But as for you, Master Tookey, you’d better stick to your 
* Amens ’: your voice is well enough when you keep it 
up in your nose. It’s your inside as isn’t right made for 
music : it’s no better nor a hollow stalk.” 

This kind of unflinching frankness was the most piquant 
form of joke to the company at the Rainbow, and Ben 
Winthrop’s insult was felt by everybody to have capped 
Mr. Macey’s epigram. 

“ I see what it is plain enough,” said Mr. Tookey, un¬ 
able to keep cool any longer. “ There’s a consperacy to 
turn me out o’ the choir, as I shouldn’t share the Christ 
mas money — that’s where it is. But I shall speak to 
Mr. Crackenthorp; I’ll not be put upon by no man.” 

“ Nay, nay, Tookey,” said Ben Winthrop. “We’ll pay 
you your share to keep out of it — that’s what we’ll do 
There’s things folks ’ud pay to be rid on, besides varmin.” 


SILAS MARNER. 


67 


“ Come, come,” said the landlord, who felt that pay- 
ing people for their absence was a principle dangerous 
to society ; “ a joke’s a joke. We’re all good friends here, 
I hope. We must give and take. You’re both right and 
you’re both wrong, as I say. I agree with Mr. Macey 
here as there’s two opinions; and if mine was asked, I 
should say they’re both right. Tookey’s right and Win- 
throp’s right, and they’ve only got to split the difference 
and make themselves even.” 

The farrier was puffing his pipe rather fiercely, in some 
contempt at this trivial discussion. He had no ear for 
music himself, and never went to church, as being of the 
medical profession, and likely to be in requisition for 
delicate cows. But the butcher, having music in his 
soul, had listened with a divided desire for Tookey’s 
defeat and for the preservation of the peace. 

“To be sure,” he said, following up the landlord’s con¬ 
ciliatory view, “ we’re fond of our old clerk; its nat’ral, 
and him used to be such a singer, and got a brother as 
is known for the first fiddler in this country-side. Eh, 
it’s a pity but what Solomon lived in our village, and 
could give us a tune when he liked; eh, Mr. Macey ? 
I’d keep him in liver and lights for nothing — that I 
would.” 

“Ay, ay,” said Mr. Macey, in the height of com¬ 
placency ; “ our family’s been known for musicianers as 
far back as anybody can tell. But them things are dying 
out, as I tell Solomon every time he comes round; 
there’s no voices like what there used to be, and there’s 
nobody remembers what we remember, if it isn’t the old 
crows.” 


68 


SILAS MARNER. 


“ Ay, you remember when first Mr. Lammeter’s father 
come into these parts, don’t you, Mr. Macey? ” said the 
landlord. 

“ I should think I did,” said the old man, who had now 
gone through that complimentary -process necessary to 
bring him up to the point of narration ; “ and a fine old 
gentleman he was — as fine, and finer nor the Mr. Lam- 
meter as now is. He came from a bit north’ard, so far 
as I could ever make out. But there’s nobody rightly 
knows about those parts : only it couldn’t be far north’ard, 
nor much different from this country, for he brought a 
fine breed o’ sheep with him, so there must be pastures 
there, and everything reasonable. We heared tell as he’d 
sold his own land to come and take the Warrens, and 
that seemed odd for a man as had land of his own, to 
come and rent a farm in a strange place. But they said 
it was along of his wife’s dying; though there’s reasons 
in things as nobody knows on — that’s pretty much what 
I’ve made out; though some folks are so wise, they’ll 
find you fifty reasons straight off, and all the while the 
real reason’s winking at ’em in the corner, and they niver 
see’t. Howsomever, it was soon seen as we’d got a 
new parish’ner as know’d the rights and customs o’ 
things, and kep a good house, and was well looked on 
by everybody. And the young man — that’s the Mr. 
Lammeter as now is, for he’d niver a sister — soon be¬ 
gun to court Miss Osgood, that’s the sister o’ the Mr. 
Osgood as now is, and a fine handsome lass she was — 
eh, you can’t think — they pretend this young lass is 
like her, but that’s the way wi’ people as don’t know 
what come before ’em. / should know, for I helped 


SILAS MARNER. 69 

the old rector, Mr. Drumlow as was, I helped him 
marry ’em.” 

Here Mr. Macey paused; he always gave his narrative 
in instalments, expecting to be questioned according to 
precedent. 

“Ay, and a partic’lar thing happened, didn’t it, Mr. 
Macey, so as you were likely to remember that mar¬ 
riage?” said the landlord, in a congratulatory tone. 

44 I should think there did — a very partic’lar thing,” 
said Mr. Macey, nodding sideways. “ For Mr. Drumlow 
— poor old gentleman, I was fond on him, though he’d 
got a bit confused in his head, what wi’ age and wi’ tak¬ 
ing a drop o’ summat warm when the service come of a 
cold morning. And young Mr. Lammeter, he’d have no 
way but he must be married in Janiwary, which, to be 
sure, ’s a unreasonable time to be married in, for it isn’t 
like a christening or a burying, as you can’t help; and 
so Mr. Drumlow — poor old gentleman, I was fond on 
him — but when he come to put the questions, he put 
'em by the rule o’ contrairy, like, and he says, 4 Wilt thou 
have this man to thy wedded wife ? ’ says he, and then 
he says, 4 Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded hus¬ 
band ? ’ says he. But the partic’larest thing of all is, as 
nobody took any notice on it but me, and they answered 
straight off 4 yes,’ like as if it had been me saying 4 Amen ’ 
i’ the right place, without listening to what went before.” 

44 But you knew what was going on well enough, didn’t 
you, Mr. Macey? You were live enough, eh? ” said the 
butcher. 

44 Lor bless you ! ” said Mr. Macey, pausing and smil¬ 
ing in pity at the impotence of his hearer’s imagination 


SILAS MARNER. 


70 


— “ why, I was all of a tremble; it was as if I’d been a 
coat pulled by the two tails, like ; for I couldn’t stop the 
parson, I couldn’t take upon me to do that; and yet I 
said to myself, I says, ‘Suppose they shouldn’t be fast 
married, ’cause the words are contrairy ? ’ and my head 
went working like a mill, for I was allays uncommon for 
turning things over and seeing all round ’em; and I says 
to myself, * Is’t the meanin’ or the words as makes folks 
fast i’ wedlock?’ For the parson meant right, and the 
bride and bridegroom meant right. But then, when I 
come to think on it, meanin’ goes but a little way i’ most 
things, for you may mean to stick things together and 
your glue may be bad, and then where are you? And so 
I says to mysen, ‘ It isn’t the meaning, it’s the glue.’ 
And I was worreted as if I’d got three bells to pull at 
once, when we got into the vestry, and they begun to 
sign their names. But where’s the use o’ talking? you 
can’t think what goes on in a ’cute man’s inside.” 

“ But you held in, for all that, didn’t you, Mr. Macey? ” 
said the landlord. 

“ Ay, I held in tight till I was by mysen wi’ Mr. Drum- 
low, and then I out wi’ everything, but respectful, as I 
allays did. And he made light on it and he says, ‘ Pooh, 
pooh, Macey, make yourself easy,’ he says; ‘ it’s neither 
the meaning nor the words — it’s the renter does it — 
that’s the glue.’ So you see he settled it easy; for par¬ 
sons and doctors know everything by heart, like, so as 
they aren’t worreted wi’ thinking what’s the rights and 
wrongs o’ things, as I’n been many and many’s the time. 
And sure enough the wedding turned out all right, on’y 
poor Mr§. Lammeter — that’s Miss Osgood as was — 


SILAS MARNER. 


7* 


died right afore the lasses were growed up; but for pros¬ 
perity and everything respectable, there’s no family more 
looked on.” 

Every one of Mr. Macey’s audience had heard this 
story many times, but it was listened to as if it had been 
a favourite tune, and at certain points the puffing of the 
pipes was momentarily suspended, that the listeners 
might give their whole minds to the expected words. 
But there was more to come; and Mr. Snell, the land¬ 
lord, duly put the leading question. 

“ Why, old Mr. Lammeter had a pretty fortin, didn’t 
they say, when he come into these parts ? ” 

“ Well, yes,” said Mr. Macey; “ but I dare say it’s as 
much as this Mr. Lammeter has done to keep it whole. 
For there was allays a talk as nobody could get rich on 
the Warrens : though he holds it cheap, for it’s what they 
call Charity Land.” 

“ Ay, and there’s few folks know so well as you how it 
come to be Charity Land, eh, Mr. Macey?” said the 
butcher. 

“How should they?” said the old clerk, with some 
contempt. “Why, my grandfather made the grooms’ 
livery for that Mr. Cliff as came and built the big stables 
at the Warrens. Why, they’re stables four times as big 
as Squire Cass’s, for he thought o’ nothing but hosses and 
hunting, Cliff didn’t — a Lunnon tailor, some folks said, 
as had gone mad wi’ cheating. For he couldn’t ride; 
lor bless you ! they said he’d got no more grip o’ the 
hoss than if his legs had been cross sticks; my grand¬ 
father heared old Squire Cass say so many and many 
a time. But ride he would as if Old Harry had been 


7 2 


SILAS MARNER. 


a-driving him ; and he’d a son, a lad o’ sixteen; and noth* 
ing would his father have him do, but he must ride and 
ride — though the lad was frighted, they said. And it 
was a common saying as the father wanted to ride the 
tailor out o’ the lad, and make a gentleman on him — 
not but what I’m a tailor myself, but in respect as God 
made me such, I’m proud on it, for ‘ Macey, tailor,’ ’s 
been wrote up over our door since afore the Queen’s 1 
heads went out on the shillings. But Cliff, he was 
ashamed o’ being called a tailor, and he was sore vexed 
as his riding was laughed at, and nobody o’ the gentle¬ 
folks hereabouts could abide him. Howsomever, the 
poor lad got sickly and died, and the father didn’t live 
long after him, for he got queerer nor ever, and they said 
he used to go out i’ the dead o’ the night, wi’ a lantern 
in his hand, to the stables, and set a lot o’ lights burning, 
for he got as he couldn’t sleep; and there he’d stand, 
cracking his whip and looking at his hosses; and they 
said it was a mercy as the stables didn’t get burnt down 
wi’ the poor dumb creaturs in ’em. But at last he died 
raving, and they found as he’d left all his property, War¬ 
rens and all, to a Lunnon Charity, and that’s how the 
Warrens came to be Charitv Land ; though, as for the 
stables, Mr. Lammeter never uses ’em — they’re out o* 
all charicter — lor bless you ! if you was to set the doors 
a-banging in ’em, it ’ud sound like thunder half o’er the 
parish.” 

“ Ay, but there’s more going on in the stables than 

1 Queen Anne died in 1714, and money with the head of George I ou 
it would have got into circulation shortly after. Macey’s ancestors had 
therefore, been tailors for about a hundred years. 


SILAS MARNER. 73 

what folks see by daylight, eh, Mr. Macey?” said the 
landlord. 

“ Ay, ay; go that way of a dark night, that’s all,” said 
Mr. Macey, winking mysteriously, “ and then make be¬ 
lieve, if you like, as you didn’t see lights i’ the stables, 
nor hear the stamping o’ the hosses, nor the cracking 
o’ the whips, and howling, too, if it’s tow’rt daybreak. 
‘ Cliffs Holiday ’ has been the name of it ever sin’ I were 
a boy; that’s to say, some said as it was the holiday Old 
Harry gev him from roasting, like. That’s what my 
father told me, and he was a reasonable man, though 
there’s folks nowadays know what happened afore they 
were born better nor they know their own business.” 

“What do you say to that, eh, Dowlas?” said the 
landlord, turning to the farrier, who was swelling with im¬ 
patience for his cue. “There’s a nut for you to crack.” 

Mr. Dowlas was the negative spirit in the company, 
and was proud of his position. 

“ Say ? I say what a man should say as doesn’t shut 
his eyes to look at a finger-post. I say, as I’m ready to 
wager any man ten pound, if he’ll stand out wi’ me any 
dry night in the pasture before the Warren stables, as we 
shall neither see lights nor hear noises, if it isn’t the blow¬ 
ing of our own noses. That’s what I say, and I’ve said 
it many a time ; but there’s nobody ’ull ventur a ten-pun’ 
note on their ghos’es as they make so sure of.” 

“ Why, Dowlas, that’s easy betting, that is,” said Ben 
Winthrop. “ You might as well bet a man as he wouldn’t 
catch the rheumatise if he stood up to’s neck in the pool 
of a frosty night. It ’ud be fine fun for a man to win his 
bet as he’d catch the rheumatise. Folks as believe in 


74 


SILAS MARNER. 


Cliff’s Holiday aren’t a-going to venture near it for 3 
matter o’ ten pound.” 

“ If Master Dowlas wants to know the truth on it,” said 
Mr. Macey, with a sarcastic smile, tapping his thumbs 
together, “ he’s no call to lay any bet — let him go and 
stan’ by himself — there’s nobody ’ull hinder him; and 
then he can let the parish’ners know if they’re wrong.” 

“ Thank you ! I’m obliged to you,” said the farrier, 
with a snort of scorn. “ If folks are fools, it’s no business 
o’ mine. / don’t want to make out the truth about 
ghos’es: I know it a’ready. But I’m not against a bet 
— everything fair and open. Let any man bet me ten 
pound as I shall see Cliff’s Holiday, and I’ll go and 
stand by myself. I want no company. I’d as lief do it 
as I’d fill this pipe.” 

“ Ah, but who’s to watch you, Dowlas, and see you do 
it? That’s no fair bet,” said the butcher. 

“No fair bet?” replied Mr. Dowlas, angrily. “I 
should like to hear any man stand up and say I want to 
bet unfair. Come now, Master Lundy, I should like to 
hear you say it.” 

“ Very like you would,” said the butcher. “ But it’s 
no business o’ mine. You’re none o’ my bargains, and 
I aren’t a-going to try and ’bate your price. If anybody’ll 
bid for you at your own vallying, let him. I’m for peace 
and quietness, I am.” 

“ Yes, that’s what every yapping cur is, when you hold 
a stick up at him,” said the farrier. “ But I’m afraid o* 
neither man nor ghost, and I’m ready to lay a fair bet. 
I aren’t a turn-tail cur.” 

“ Ay, but there’s this in it. Dowlas,” said the landlord, 


SILAS MARNER. 


75 


speaking in a tone of much candour and tolerance. 
“ There’s folks, i’ my opinion, they can’t see ghos’es, not 
if they stood as plain as a pike-staff before ’em. And 
there’s reason i’ that. For there’s my wife, now, can’t 
smell, not if she’d the strongest o’ cheese under her nose. 
I never see’d a ghost myself; but then I says to myself, 
‘Very like I haven’t got the smell for ’em.’ I mean 
putting a ghost for a smell, or else contrairiways. And 
so, I’m for holding with both sides; for, as I say, the 
truth lies between ’em. And if Dowlas was to go and 
stand, and say he’d never seen a wink o’ Cliff’s Holiday 
all the night through, I’d back him ; and if anybody said 
as Cliff’s Holiday was certain sure for all that, I’d back 
him too. For the smell’s what I go by.” 

The landlord’s analogical argument was not well re¬ 
ceived by the farrier — a man intensely opposed to 
compromise. 

“Tut, tut,” he said, setting down his glass with re¬ 
freshed irritation; “ what’s the smell got to do with it ? 
Did ever a ghost give a man a black eye ? That’s what 
I should like to know. If ghos’es want me to believe in 
’em, let ’em leave off skulking i’ the dark and i’ lone 
places — let ’em come where there’s company and 
candles.” 

“ As if ghos’es ’ud want to be believed in by anybody 
so ignirant! ” said Mr. Macey, in deep disgust at the 
farrier’s crass incompetence to apprehend the conditions 
of ghostly phenomena. 


CHAPTER VII. 


Yet the next moment there seemed to be some evi¬ 
dence that ghosts had a more condescending disposition 
than Mr. Macey attributed to them; for the pale thin 
figure of Silas Marner was suddenly seen standing in the 
warm light, uttering no word, but looking round at the 
company with his strange unearthly eyes. The long 
pipes gave a simultaneous movement, like the antennae 
of startled insects, and every man present, not excepting 
even the sceptical farrier, had an impression that he saw, 
not Silas Marner in the flesh, but an apparition ; for the 
door by which Silas had entered was hidden by the high- 
screened seats, and no one had noticed his approach. 
Mr. Macey, sitting a long way off the ghost, might be 
supposed to have felt an argumentative triumph, which 
would tend to neutralize his share of the general alarm. 
Had he not always said that when Silas Marner was in 
that strange trance of his, his soul went loose from his 
body ? Here was the demonstration : nevertheless, on 
the whole, he would have been as well contented without 
it. For a few moments there was a dead silence, Mar- 
ner’s want of breath and agitation not allowing him to 
speak. The landlord, under the habitual sense that he 
was bound to keep his house open to all company, and 
confident in the protection of his unbroken neutrality, at 
last took on himself the task of adjuring the ghost 
76 


SILAS MARNER. 


77 


“ Master Marner,” he said, in a conciliatory tone, 
14 what’s lacking to you ? What’s your business here ? ” 

“ Robbed ! ” said Silas, gaspingly. “ I’ve been robbed ! 
I want the constable — and the Justice — and Squire 
Cass — and Mr. Crackenthorp.” 

“ Lay hold on him, Jem Rodney,” said the landlord, 
the idea of a ghost subsiding; “he’s off his head, I 
doubt. He’s wet through.” 

Jem Rodney was the outermost man, and sat conve¬ 
niently near Marner’s standing-place; but he declined to 
give his services. 

“ Come and lay hold on him yourself, Mr. Snell, if 
you’ve a mind,” said Jem, rather sullenly. “ He’s been 
robbed, and murdered too, for what I know,” he added, 
in a muttering tone. 

“Jem Rodney!” said Silas, turning and fixing his 
strange eyes on the suspected man. 

“ Ay, Master Marner, what do you want wi’ me ? ” 
said Jem, trembling a little, and seizing his drinking-can 
as a defensive weapon. 

“If it was you stole my money,” said Silas, clasping 
his hands entreatingly, and raising his voice to a cry, 
“give it me back,—and I won’t meddle with you. I 
won’t set the constable on you. Give it me back, and 
I’ll let you — I’ll let you have a guinea.” 

“Me stole your money!” said Jem, angrily. “I’ll 
pitch this can at your eye if you talk o’ my stealing your 
money.” 

“ Come, come, Master Marner,” said the landlord, now 
rising resolutely, and seizing Marner by the shoulder, “ if 
you’ve got any information to lay, speak it out sensible. 


78 


SILAS MARNER. 


and show as you’re in your right mind, if you expect any¬ 
body to listen to you. You’re as wet as a drownded rat. 
Sit down and dry yourself, and speak straight forrard.” 

“Ah, to be sure, man,” said the farrier, who began to 
feel that he had not been quite on a par with himself and 
the occasion. “ Let’s have no more staring and scream¬ 
ing, else we’ll have you strapped for a madman. That 
was why I didn’t speak at the first — thinks I, the man’s 
run mad.” 

“ Ay, ay, make him sit down,” said several voices at 
once, well pleased that the reality of ghosts remained 
still an open question. 

The landlord forced Marner to take off his coat, and 
then to sit down on a chair aloof from every one else, in 
the centre of the circle and in the direct rays of the 
fire. The weaver, too feeble to have any distinct pur¬ 
pose beyond that of getting help to recover his money, 
submitted unresistingly. The transient fears of the com¬ 
pany were now forgotten in their strong curiosity, and all 
faces were turned toward Silas, when the landlord, having 
seated himself again, said — 

“ Now then, Master Marner, what’s this you’ve got to 
say— as you’ve been robbed? Speak out.” 

“ He’d better not say again as it was me robbed him,” 
cried Jem Rodney, hastily. “ What could I ha’ done 
with his money ? I could as easy steal the parson’s sur¬ 
plice, and wear it.” 

“ Hold your tongue, Jem, and let’s hear what he’s got 
to say,” said the landlord. “ Now then, Master Marner.” 

Silas now told his story under frequent questioning, as 
the mysterious character of the robbery became evident 


SILAS MARNER. 


79 


This strangely novel situation of opening his trouble 
to his Raveloe neighbours, of sitting in the warmth of a 
hearth not his own, and feeling the presence of faces and 
voices which were his nearest promise of help, had doubt¬ 
less its influence on Marner, in spite of his passionate 
preoccupation with his loss. Our consciousness rarely 
registers the beginning of a growth within us any more 
than without us: there have been many circulations 
of the sap before we detect the smallest sign of the 
bud. 

The slight suspicion with which his hearers at first 
listened to him, gradually melted away before the con¬ 
vincing simplicity of his distress ; it was impossible for the 
neighbours to doubt that Marner was telling the truth, not 
because they were capable of arguing at once from the 
nature of his statements to the absence of any motive for 
making them falsely, but because, as Mr. Macey observed, 
“ Folks as had the devil to back ’em were not likely to be 
so mushed ” as poor Silas was. Rather, from the strange 
fact that the robber had left no traces, and had happened 
to know the nick of time, utterly incalculable by mortal 
agents, when Silas would go away from home without 
locking his door, the more probable conclusion seemed 
to be, that his disreputable intimacy in that quarter, if it 
ever existed, had been broken up, and that, in conse¬ 
quence, this ill turn had been done to Marner by some¬ 
body it was quite in vain to set the constable after. Why 
this preternatural felon should be obliged to wait till the 
door was left unlocked, was a question which did not pre¬ 
sent itself. 

“ It isn’t Jem Rodney as has done this work* Master 


So 


SILAS MARNER. 


Marner,” said the landlord. “ You mustn’t be a-casting 
your eye at poor Jem. There may be a bit of a reckoning 
against Jem for the matter of a hare or so, if anybody 
was bound to keep their eyes staring open, and never to 
wink; but Jem’s been a-sitting here drinking his can, 
like the decentest man i’ the parish, since before you left 
your house, Master Marner, by your own account.” 

“ Ay, ay,” said Mr. Macey; “ let’s have no accusing o’ 
the innicent. That isn’t the law. There must be folks 
to swear again’ a man before he can be ta’en up. Let’s 
have no accusing o’ the innicent, Master Marner.” 

Memory was not so utterly torpid in Silas that it could 
not be wakened by these words. With a movement of 
compunction as new and strange to him as everything 
else within the last hour, he started from his chair and 
went close up to Jem, looking at him as if he wanted to 
assure himself of the expression in his face. 

“I was wrong,” he said — “yes, yes—I ought to 
have thought. There’s nothing to witness against you, 
Jem. Only you’d been into my house oftener than any¬ 
body else, and so you came into my head. I don’t 
accuse you— I won’t accuse anybody — only,” he added, 
lifting up his hands to his head, and turning away with 
bewildered misery, “ I try, — I try to think where my 
guineas can be.” 

“ Ay, ay, they’re gone where it’s hot enough to melt 
’em, I doubt,” said Mr. Macey. 

“Tchuh ! ” said the farrier. And then he asked, with 
a cross-examining air, “ How much money might there 
be in the bags, Master Marner?” 

“Two hundred and seventy-two pounds, twelve and 


SILAS MARNER. 


81 


sixpence, last night when I counted it,” said Silas, seating 
himself again, with a groan. 

“ Pooh ! why, they’d be none so heavy to carry. Some 
tramp’s been in, that’s all; and as for the no footmarks, 
and the bricks and sand being all right — why, your eyes 
are pretty much like a insect’s, Master Marner; they’re 
obliged to look so close, you can’t see much at a time. 
It’s my opinion as, if I’d been you, or you’d been me — 
for it comes to the same thing — you wouldn’t have 
thought you’d found everything as you left it. But what 
I vote is, as two of the sensiblest o’ the company should 
go with you to Master Kench, the constable’s — he’s ill 
i’ bed, I know that much — and get him to appoint one 
of us his deppity; for that’s the law, and I don’t think 
anybody ’ull take upon him to contradick me there. It 
isn’t much of a walk to Kench’s; and then, if it’s me as 
is deppity, I’ll go back with you, Master Marner, and 
examine your premises ; and if anybody’s got any fault to 
find with that, I’ll thank him to stand up and say it out 
like a man.” 

By this pregnant speech the farrier had re-established 
his self-complacency, and waited with confidence to hear 
himself named as one of the superlatively sensible men. 

“ Let us see how the night is, though,” said the land¬ 
lord, who also considered himself personally concerned 
in this proposition. “ Why, it rains heavy still,” he said, 
returning from the door. 

“ Well, I’m not the man to be afraid o’ the rain,” said 
the farrier. “ For it’ll look bad when Justice Malam 
hears as respectable men like us had a information laid 
before ’em and took no steps.” 


82 


SILAS MARNER. 


The landlord agreed with this view, and after taking 
the sense of the company, and duly rehearsing a small 
ceremony known in high ecclesiastical life as the nolo 
episcopari he consented to take on himself the chill 
dignity of going to Kench’s. But to the farrier’s strong 
disgust, Mr. Macey now started an objection to his pro¬ 
posing himself as a deputy-constable; for that oracular 
old gentleman, claiming to know the law, stated, as a 
fact delivered to him by his father, that no doctor could 
be a constable. 

“ And you’re a doctor, I reckon, though you’re only a 
cow-doctor — for a fly’s a fly, though it may be a hoss- 
fly,” concluded Mr. Macey, wondering a little at his own 
“ ’cuteness.” 

There was a hot debate upon this, the farrier being of 
course indisposed to renounce the quality of doctor, but 
contending that a doctor could be a constable if he liked 
— the law meant, he needn’t be one if he didn’t like. 
Mr. Macey thought this was nonsense, since the law 
was not likely to be fonder of doctors than of other 
folks. Moreover, if it was in the nature of doctors more 
than of other men not to like being constables, how 
came Mr. Dowlas to be so eager to act in that capacity ? 

"I don’t want to act the constable,” said the farrier, 
driven into a corner by this merciless reasoning; “and 
there’s no man can say it of me, if he’d tell the truth. 

1 " I wish not to be made bishop.” The phrase is attributed to Bishop 
Beveridge (1637-1708), who first accepted, and then declined, the see of 
Bath and Wells. It is said that in olden times the person about to be 
elected bishop modestly refused the office twice, and, if he <lid so on a 
third asking, his refusal was accepted. The idea is the same as ‘ Saying 
* I will ne’er consent,’ consented.” 


SILAS MARNER. 


83 


But if there’s to be any jealousy and envying about going 
to Kench’s in the rain, let them go as like it — you won’t 
get me to go, I can tell you.” 

By the landlord’s intervention, however, the dispute 
was accommodated. Mr. Dowlas consented to go as a 
second person disinclined to act officially; and so poor 
Silas, furnished with some old coverings, turned out with 
his two companions into the rain again, thinking of the 
long night-hours before him, not as those do who long 
to rest, but as those who expect to “ watch for the 
morning.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


When Godfrey Cass returned from Mrs. Osgood’s 
party at midnight, he was not much surprised to learn 
that Dunsey had not come home. Perhaps he had 
not sold Wildfire, and was waiting for another chance — 
perhaps, on that foggy afternoon, he had preferred hous¬ 
ing himself at the Red Lion at Batherley for the night, if 
the run had kept him in that neighbourhood ; for he was 
not likely to feel much concern about leaving his brother 
in suspense. Godfrey’s mind was too full of Nancy 
Lammeter’s looks and behaviour, too full of the exasper¬ 
ation against himself and his lot, which the sight of her 
always produced in him, for him to give much thought 
to Wildfire, or to the probabilities of Dunstan’s conduct. 

The next morning the whole village was excited by 
the story of the robbery, and Godfrey, like every one 
else, was occupied in gathering and discussing news 
about it, and in visiting the Stone-pits. The rain had 
washed away all possibility of distinguishing footmarks, 
but a close investigation of the spot had disclosed, in the 
direction opposite to the village, a tinder-box, with a 
flint and steel, half sunk in the mud. It was not Silas’s 
tinder-box, for the only one he had ever had was still 
standing on his shelf; and the inference generally 
accepted was, that the tinder-box in the ditch was some¬ 
how connected with the robbery. A small minority 
84 


SILAS MARNER. 


85 


shook their heads, and intimated their opinion that it was 
not a robbery to have much light thrown on it by tinder- 
boxes, that Master Marner’s tale had a queer look with 
it, and that such things had been known as a man’s 
doing himself a mischief, and then setting the justice to 
look for the doer. But questioned closely as to their 
ground for this opinion, and what Master Marner had to 
gain by such false pretences, they only shook their heads 
as before, and observed that there was no knowing what 
some folks counted gain; moreover, that everybody had 
a right to their own opinions, grounds or no grounds, 
and that the weaver, as everybody knew, was partly 
crazy. Mr. Macey, though he joined in the defence of 
Marner against all suspicions of deceit, also pooh-poohed 
the tinder-box; indeed, repudiated it as a rather impious 
suggestion, tending to imply that everything must be 
done by human hands, and that there was no power 
which could make away with the guineas without moving 
the bricks. Nevertheless, he turned round rather 
sharply on Mr. Tookey, when the zealous deputy, feeling 
that this was a view of the case peculiarly suited to a 
parish-clerk, carried it still further, and doubted whether 
it was right to inquire into a robbery at all when the 
circumstances were so mysterious. 

“ As if,” concluded Mr. Tookey — “ as if there was 
nothing but what could be made out by justices and con¬ 
stables.” 

“ Now, don’t you be for overshooting the mark, Tookey,” 
said Mr. Macey, nodding his head aside admonishingly. 
“ That’s what you’re allays at ; if I throw a stone and hit, 
you think there’s summat better than hitting, and you try 


86 


SILAS MARNER. 


to throw a stone beyond. What I said was against the 
tinder-box : I said nothing against justices and constables, 
for they’re o’ King George’s making, and it ’ud be ill- 
becoming a man in a parish office to fly out again’ King 
George.” 

While these discussions were going on amongst the 
group outside the Rainbow, a higher consultation was be¬ 
ing carried on within, under the presidency of Mr. Crack- 
enthorp, the rector, assisted by Squire Cass, and other 
substantial parishioners. It had just occurred to Mr. 
Snell, the landlord — he being, as he observed, a man 
accustomed to put two and two together — to connect 
with the tinder-box, which, as deputy constable, he him¬ 
self had had the honourable distinction of finding, certain 
recollections of a pedlar who had called to drink at the 
house about a month before, and had actually stated that 
he carried a tinder-box about with him to light his pipe. 
Here, surely, was a clue to be followed out. And as 
memory, when duly impregnated with ascertained facts, 
is sometimes surprisingly fertile, Mr. Snell gradually re¬ 
covered a vivid impression of the effect produced on him 
by the pedlar’s countenance and conversation. He had 
a “look with his eye” which fell unpleasantly on Mr. 
Snell’s sensitive organism. To be sure, he didn’t say any¬ 
thing particular — no, except that about the tinder-box 
— but it isn’t what a man says, it’s the way he says it, 
Moreover, he had a swarthy foreignness of complexion, 
which boded little honesty. 

“Did he wear ear-rings?” Mr. Crackenthorp wished 
to know, having some acquaintance with foreign customs. 

“Well—stay—let me see,” said Mr. Snell, like a 


SILAS MARNER. 


87 


docile clairvoyante, who would really not make a mistake 
if she could help it. After stretching the corners of his 
mouth and contracting his eyes, as if he were trying to 
see the ear-rings, he appeared to give up the effort, and 
said, " Well, he’d got ear-rings in his box to sell, so it’s 
nat’ral to suppose he might wear ’em. But he called at 
every house, a’most, in the village : there’s somebody else, 
mayhap, saw ’em in his ears, though I can’t take upon 
me rightly to say.” 

Mr. Snell was correct in his surmise, that somebody 
else would remember the pedlar’s ear-rings. For, on the 
spread of inquiry among the villagers, it was stated with 
gathering emphasis, that the parson had wanted to know 
whether the pedlar wore ear-rings in his ears, and an im¬ 
pression was created that a great deal depended on the 
eliciting of this fact. Of course, every one who heard 
the question, not having any distinct image of the pedlar 
as without ear-rings, immediately had an image of him 
with ear-rings, larger or smaller, as the case might be; 
and the image was presently taken for a vivid recollection, 
so that the glazier’s wife, a well-intentioned woman, not 
given to lying, and whose house was among the cleanest 
in the village, was ready to declare, as sure as ever she 
meant to take the sacrament the very next Christmas that 
was ever coming, that she had seen big ear-rings, in the 
shape of the young moon, in the pedlar’s two ears ; while 
Jinny Oates, the cobbler’s daughter, being a more imagi¬ 
native person, stated not only that she had seen them 
too, but that they had made her blood creep, as it did at 
that very moment while there she stood. 

Also, by way of throwing further light on this clue of 


88 


SILAS MARNER. 


the tinder-box, a collection was made of all the articles 
purchased from the pedlar at various houses, and carried 
to the Rainbow to be exhibited there. In fact, there was 
a general feeling in the village, that for the clearing-up of 
this robbery there must be a great deal done at the Rain¬ 
bow, and that no man need offer his wife an excuse for 
going there while it was the scene of severe public duties. 

Some disappointment was felt, and perhaps a little in¬ 
dignation also, when it became known that Silas Marner, 
on being questioned by the Squire and the parson, had 
retained no other recollection of the pedlar than that he 
had called at his door, but had not entered his house, 
having turned away at once when Silas, holding the door 
ajar, had said that he wanted nothing. This had been 
Silas’s testimony, though he clutched strongly at the idea 
of the pedlar’s being the culprit, if only because it gave 
him a definite image of a whereabout for his gold after 
it had been taken away from its hiding-place; he could 
see it now in the pedlar’s box. But it was observed with 
some irritation in the village, that anybody but a “ blind 
creatur ” like Marner would have seen the man prowling 
about, for how came he to leave his tinder-box in the 
ditch close by, if he hadn’t been lingering there ? Doubt¬ 
less, he had made his observations when he saw Marner 
at the door. Anybody might know — and only look 
at him — that the weaver was a half-crazy miser. It was 
a wonder the pedlar hadn’t murdered him ; men of that 
sort, with rings in their ears, had been known for mur¬ 
derers often and often; there had been one tried at the 
'sizes, not so long ago but what there were people living 
who remembered it. 


SILAS MARNER. 


89 


Godfrey Cass, indeed, entering the Rainbow during 
one of Mr. Snell’s frequently repeated recitals of his tes¬ 
timony, had treated it lightly, stating that he himself had 
bought a penknife of the pedlar, and thought him a merry 
grinning fellow enough ; it was all nonsense, he said, about 
the man’s evil looks. But this was spoken of in the village 
as the random talk of youth, “ as if it was only Mr. Snell 
who had seen something odd about the pedlar!” On 
the contrary, there were at least half a dozen who were 
ready to go before Justice Malam, and give in much 
more striking testimony than any the landlord could fur¬ 
nish. It was to be hoped Mr. Godfrey would not go to 
Tarley and throw cold water on what Mr. Snell said there, 
and so prevent the justice from drawing up a warrant. 
He was suspected of intending this, when, after mid-day, 
he was seen setting off on horseback in the direction of 
Tarley. 

But by this time Godfrey’s interest in the robbery had 
faded before his growing anxiety about Dunstan and Wild¬ 
fire, and he was going, not to Tarley, but to Batherley, un¬ 
able to rest in uncertainty about them any longer. The 
possibility that Dunstan had played him the ugly trick of 
riding away with Wildfire, to return at the end of a month, 
when he had gambled away or otherwise squandered the 
price of the horse, was a fear that urged itself upon him 
more, even, than the thought of an accidental injury; 
and now that the dance at Mrs. Osgood’s was past, he 
was irritated with himself that he had trusted his horse 
to Dunstan. Instead of trying to still his fears he en¬ 
couraged them, with that superstitious impression which 
clings to us all, that if we expect evil very strongly it is 


go 


SILAS MARNER. 


the less likely to come; and when he heard a horse ap¬ 
proaching at a trot, and saw a hat rising above a hedge 
beyond an angle of the lane, he felt as if his conjuration 
had succeeded. But no sooner did the horse come 
within sight, than his heart sank again. It was not 
Wildfire; and a few moments more he discerned that 
the rider was not Dunstan, but Bryce, who pulled up to 
speak, with a face that implied something disagreeable. 

“ Well, Mr. Godfrey, that’s a lucky brother of yours, 
that Master Dunsey, isn’t he?” 

“ What do you mean?” said Godfrey, hastily. 

“Why, hasn’t he been home yet?” said Bryce. 

“Home? no. What has happened? Be quick. What 
has he done with my horse ? ” 

“ Ah, I thought it was yours, though he pretended you 
had parted with it to him.” 

“Has he thrown him down and broken his knees?” 
said Godfrey, flushed with exasperation. 

“Worse than that,” said Bryce. “You see, I’d made 
a bargain with him to buy the horse for a hundred and 
twenty — a swinging price, but I always liked the horse. 
And what does he do but go and stake him—fly at a 
hedge with stakes in it, atop of a bank with a ditch 
before it. The horse had been dead a pretty good while 
when he was found. So he hasn’t been home since, has he ? ” 

“ Home ? no,” said Godfrey, “ and he’d better keep 
away. Confound me for a fool! I might have known 
this would be the end of it.” 

“Well, to tell the truth,” said Bryce, after I’d bar¬ 
gained for the horse, it did come into my head that he 
might be riding and selling the horse without your know* 


SILAS MARNER. 


9i 


ledge, for I didn’t believe it was his own. I knew Master 
Dunsey was up to his tricks sometimes. But where can 
he be gone ? He’s never been seen at Batherley. He 
couldn’t have been hurt, for he must have walked off.” 

“Hurt?” said Godfrey, bitterly. “He’ll never be 
hurt — he’s made to hurt other people.” 

“ And so you did give him leave to sell the horse, eh ? ” 
said Bryce. 

“Yes; I wanted to part with the horse — he was al¬ 
ways a little too hard in the mouth for me,” said Godfrey ; 
his pride making him wince under the idea that Bryce 
guessed the sale to be a matter of necessity. “I was 
going to see after him — I thought some mischief had 
happened. I’ll go back now,” he added, turning the 
horse’s head, and wishing he could get rid of Bryce; for 
he felt that the long-dreaded crisis in his life was close 
upon him. “ You’re coming on to Raveloe, aren’t you ? ” 

“Well, no, not now,” said Bryce. “ I was coming round 
there, for I had to go to Flitton, and I thought I might as 
well take you in my way, and just let you know all I knew 
myself about the horse. I suppose Master Dunsey didn’t 
like to show himself till the ill news had blown over a bit. 
He’s perhaps gone.to pay a visit at the Three Crowns, by 
Whitbridge — I know he’s fond of the house.” 

“ Perhaps he is,” said Godfrey, rather absently. Then 
rousing himself, he said, with an effort at carelessness, 
“ We shall hear of him soon enough, I’ll be bound.” 

“ Weil, here’s my turning,” said Byrce, not surprised to 
perceive that Godfrey was rather ‘down’; “so I’ll bid you 
good-day, and wish I may bring you better news another 
time.” 


92 


SILAS MARNER. 


Godfrey rode along slowly, representing to himself the 
scene of confession to his father from which he felt that 
there was now no longer any escape. The revelation 
about the money must be made the very next morning; 
and if he withheld the rest, Dunstan would be sure to 
come back shortly, and, finding that he must bear the 
brunt of his father’s anger, would tell the whole story out 
of spite, even though he had nothing to gain by it. There 
was one step, perhaps, by which he might still win Dun- 
stan’s silence and put off the evil day; he might tell his 
father that he had himself spent the money paid to him 
by Fowler; and as he had never been guilty of such an 
offence before, the affair would blow over after a little 
storming. But Godfrey could not bend himself to this. 
He felt that in letting Dunstan have the money, he had 
already been guilty of a breach of trust hardly less cul¬ 
pable than that of spending the money directly for his 
own behoof; and yet there was a distinction between the 
two acts which made him feel that the one was so much 
more blackening than the other as to be intolerable to him. 

“ I don’t pretend to be a good fellow,” he said to him¬ 
self; “but I’m not a scoundrel — at least, I’ll stop short 
somewhere. I’ll bear the consequences of what I have 
done, sooner than make believe I’ve done what I never 
would have done. I’d never have spent the money for 
my own pleasure — I was tortured into it.” 

Through the remainder of this day Godfrey, with only 
occasional fluctuations, kept his will bent in the direc¬ 
tion of a complete avowal to his father, and he withheld 
the story of Wildfire’s loss till the next morning, that it 
might serve him as an introduction to heavier matter. 


SILAS MARNER. 


93 


The old Squire was accustomed to his son’s frequent 
absence from home, and thought neither Dunstan’s nor 
Wildfire’s non-appearance a matter calling for remark. 
Godfrey said to himself again and again, that if he let 
slip this one opportunity of confession, he might never 
have another; the revelation might be made even in a 
more odious way than by Dunstan’s malignity; she might 
come as she had threatened to do. And then he tried to 
make the scene easier to himself by rehearsal: he made up 
his mind how he would pass from the admission of his weak¬ 
ness in letting Dunstan have the money to the fact that 
Dunstan had a hold on him which he had been unable to 
shake off, and how he would work up his father to expect 
something very bad before he told him the fact. The 
old Squire was an implacable man : he made resolutions 
in violent anger, but he was not to be moved from them 
after his anger had subsided — as fiery volcanic matters 
cool and harden into rock. Like many violent and im¬ 
placable men, he allowed evils to grow under favour of 
his own heedlessness, till they pressed upon him with 
exasperating force, and then he turned round with fierce 
severity and became unrelentingly hard. This was his 
system with his tenants : he allowed them to get into 
arrears, neglect their fences, reduce their stock, sell their 
straw, and otherwise go the wrong way, — and then, when 
he became short of money in consequence of this indul¬ 
gence, he took the hardest measures and would listen to 
no appeal. Godfrey knew all this, and felt it with the 
greater force because he had constantly suffered annoy¬ 
ance from witnessing his father’s sudden fits of unrelent¬ 
ingness, for which his own habitual irresolution deprived 


94 


SILAS MARNER. 


him of all sympathy. (He was not critical on the faulty 
indulgence which preceded these fits; that seemed to 
him natural enough.) Still there was just the chance, 
Godfrey thought, that his father’s pride might see this 
marriage in a light that would induce him to hush it up, 
rather than turn his son out and make the family the talk 
of the country for ten miles round. 

This was the view of the case that Godfrey managed 
to keep before him pretty closely till midnight, and he 
went to sleep thinking that he had done with inward 
debating. But when he awoke in the still morning 
darkness he found it impossible to re-awaken his even¬ 
ing thoughts; it was as if they had been tired out and 
were not to be roused to further work. Instead of 
arguments for confession, he could now feel the pres¬ 
ence of nothing but its evil consequences: the old 
dread of disgrace came back — the old shrinking from 
the thought of raising a hopeless barrier between him¬ 
self and Nancy — the old disposition to rely on chances 
which might be favourable to him, and save him from 
betrayal. Why, after all, should he cut off the hope of 
them by his own act? He had seen the matter in a 
wrong light yesterday. He had been in a rage with 
Dunstan, and had thought of nothing but a thorough 
break-up of their mutual understanding; but what it 
would be really wisest for him to do, was to try and 
soften his father’s anger against Dunsey, and keep 
things as nearly as possible in their old condition. If 
Dunsey did not come back for a few days (and Godfrey 
did not know but that the rascal had enough money in 
his pocket to enable him to keep away still longer), 
everything might blow ov?r 


CHAPTER IX. 


Godfrey rose and took his own breakfast earlier than 
usual, but lingered in the wainscoted parlour till his younger 
brothers had finished their meal and gone out; awaiting 
his father, who always went out and had a walk with his 
managing-man before breakfast. Every one breakfasted 
at a different hour in the Red House, and the Squire was 
always the latest, giving a long chance to a rather feeble 
morning appetite before he tried it. The table had been 
spread with substantial eatables nearly two hours before 
he presented himself— a tall, stout man of sixty, with a 
face in which the knit brow and rather hard glance seemed 
contradicted by the slack and feeble mouth. His person 
showed marks of habitual neglect, his dress was slovenly; 
and yet there was something in the presence of the old 
Squire distinguishable from that of the ordinary farmers 
in the parish, who were perhaps every whit as refined as 
he, but, having slouched their way through life with a 
consciousness of being in the vicinity of their “ betters,” 
wanted that self-possession and authoritativeness''of voice 
and carriage which belonged to a man who thought of 
superiors as remote existences, with whom he had per¬ 
sonally little more to do than with America or the stars. 
The Squire had been used to parish homage all his life, 
used to the presupposition that his family, his tankards, 
and everything that was his, were the oldest and best ; 

95 


96 


SILAS MARNER. 


and as he never associated with any gentry higher than 
himself, his opinion was not disturbed by comparison. 

He glanced at his son as he entered the room, and 
said, “ What, sir ! haven’t you had your breakfast yet ? ” 
but there was no pleasant morning greeting between 
them; not because of any unfriendliness, but because 
tne sweet flower of courtesy is not a growth of such 
homes as the Red House. 

“ Yes, sir,” said Godfrey, “ I’ve had my breakfast, but 
I was waiting to speak to you.” 

“ Ah! well,” said the Squire, throwing himself indif¬ 
ferently into his chair, and speaking in a ponderous 
coughing fashion, which was felt in Raveloe to be a sort 
of privilege of his rank, while he cut a piece of beef, and 
held it up before the deer-hound that had come in with 
him. “Ring the bell for my ale, will you? You young¬ 
sters’ business is your own pleasure, mostly. There’s no 
hurry about it for anybody but yourselves.” 

The Squire’s life was quite as idle as his son’s, but it 
was a fiction kept up by himself and his contemporaries 
in Raveloe that youth was exclusively the period of folly, 
and that their aged wisdom was constantly in a state of 
endurance mitigated by sarcasm. Godfrey waited, before 
he spoke again, until the ale had been brought and the 
door cldsed — an interval during which Fleet, the deer¬ 
hound, had consumed enough bits of beef to make a poor 
man’s holiday dinner. 

“ There’s been a cursed piece of ill-luck with Wildfire,” 
he began; “ happened the day before yesterday.” 

“What? broke his knees?” said the Squire, after tak¬ 
ing a draught of ale. “ I thought you knew how to ride 



stf- 'yy 

there’s been a cursed piece of ill luck with 


WILDFIRE 








































































SILAS MARNER. 


97 

better than that, sir. I never threw a horse down in my 
life. If I had, I might ha’ whistled for another, for my 
father wasn’t quite so ready to unstring as some other 
fathers I know of. But they must turn over a new leaf 
— they must. What with mortgages and arrears, I’m as 
short o’ cash as a roadside pauper. And that fool Kim¬ 
ble says the newspaper’s talking about peace. Why, the 
country wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. Prices ’ud run 
down like a jack, and I should never get my arrears, not 
if I sold all the fellows up. And there’s that damned 
Fowler, I won’t put up with him any longer; I’ve told 
Winthrop to go to Cox this very day. The lying scoun¬ 
drel told me he’d be sure to pay me a hundred last month. 
He takes advantage because he’s on that outlying farm, 
and thinks I shall forget him.” 

The Squire had delivered this speech in a coughing 
and interrupted manner, but with no pause long enough 
for Godfrey to make it a pretext for taking up the word 
again. He felt that his father meant to ward off any re¬ 
quest for money on the ground of the misfortune with 
Wildfire, and that the emphasis he had thus been led to 
lay on his shortness of cash and his arrears was likely to 
produce an attitude of mind the most unfavourable for his 
own disclosure. But he must go on, now he had begun. 

“ It’s worse than breaking the horse’s knees — he’s 
been staked and killed,” he said, as soon as his father 
was silent, and had begun to cut his meat. “ But I wasn’t 
thinking of asking you to buy me another horse; I was 
only thinking I’d lost the means of paying you with the 
price of Wildfire, as I’d meant to do. Dunsey took him 
to the hunt to sell him for me the other day, and after 


98 


SILAS MARNER. 


he’d made a bargain for a hundred and twenty with Bryce, 
he went after the hounds, and took some fool’s leap or 
other that did for the horse at once. If it hadn’t been 
for that, I should have paid you a hundred pounds this 
morning.” 

The Squire had laid down his knife and fork, and was 
staring at his son in amazement, not being sufficiently 
quick of brain to form a probable guess as to what could 
have caused so strange an inversion of the paternal and 
filial relations as this proposition of his son to pay him a 
hundred pounds. 

“The truth is, sir — I’m very sorry—I was quite to 
blame,” said Godfrey. “ Fowler did pay that hundred 
pounds. He paid it to me, when I was over there one 
day last month. And Dunsey bothered me for the 
money, and I let him have it, because I hoped I should 
be able to pay it you before this.” 

The Squire was purple with anger before his son had 
done speaking, and found utterance difficult. “You let 
Dunsey have it, sir? And how long have you been so 
thick with Dunsey that you must collogue with him to 
embezzle my money ? Are you turning out a scamp ? I 
tell you I won’t have it. I’ll turn the whole pack of you 
out of the house together, and marry again. I’d have 
you to remember, sir, my property’s got no entail 1 on it; 
— since my grandfather’s time the Casses can do as they 
like with their land. Remember that, sir. Let Dunsey 
have the money? Why should you let Dunsey have the 
money? There’s some lie at the bottom of it.” 

1 The Squire’s estate was not limited in descent to his eldest son. so 
that he could bequeath it at pleasure. 


SILAS MARNER. 


99 


“ There’s no lie, sir,” said Godfrey. “ I wouldn’t have 
spent the money myself, but Dunsey bothered me, and I 
was a fool, and let him have it. But I meant to pay it, 
whether he did or not. That’s the whole story. I never 
meant to embezzle money, and I’m not the man to do it. 
Vou never knew me do a dishonest trick, sir.” 

“ Where’s Dunsey, then ? What do you stand talking 
there for? Go and fetch Dunsey, as I tell you, and let 
him give account of what he wanted the money for, and 
what he’s done with it. He shall repent it. I’ll turn 
him out. I said I would, and I’ll do it. He shan’t brave 
me. Go and fetch him.” 

“ Dunsey isn’t come back, sir.” 

“ What! did he break his own neck, then ? ” said the 
Squire, with some disgust at the idea that, in that case, 
he could not fulfil his threat. 

“ No, he wasn’t hurt, I believe, for the horse was found 
dead, and Dunsey must have walked off. I dare say we 
shall see him again by and by. I don’t know where 
he is.” 

“ And what must you be letting him have my money 
for? Answer me that,” said the Squire, attacking God¬ 
frey again, since Dunsey was not within reach. 

"Well, sir, I don’t know,” said Godfrey, hesitatingly. 
That was a feeble evasion, but Godfrey was not fond of 
lying, and, not being sufficiently aware that no sort of 
duplicity can long flourish without the help of vocal false¬ 
hoods, he was quite unprepared with invented motives. 

"You don’t know? I tell you what it is, sir. You’ve 
been up to some trick, and you’ve been bribing him not 
to tell,” said the Squire, with a sudden acuteness which 


JOo 


SILAS MARNER. 


startled Godfrey, who felt his heart beat violently at the 
nearness of his father’s guess. The sudden alarm pushed 
him on to take the next step — a very slight impulse 
suffices for that on a downward road. 

“ Why, sir,” he said, trying to speak with careless ease, 
“ it was sa little affair between me and Dunsey; it’s no 
matter to anybody else. It’s hardly worth while to pry 
into young men’s fooleries: it wouldn’t have made any 
difference to you, sir, if I’d not had the bad luck to lose 
Wildfire. I should have paid you the money.” 

“ Fooleries ! Pshaw ! it’s time you’d done with fool¬ 
eries. And I’d have you know, sir, you must ha’ done 
with ’em,” said the Squire, frowning and casting an angry 
glance at his son. “ Your goings-on are not what I shall 
find money for any longer. There’s my grandfather had 
his stables full o’ horses, and kept a good house, too, and 
in worse times, by what I can make out; and so might I, 
if I hadn’t four good-for-nothing fellows to hang on me 
like horse-leeches. I’ve been too good a father to you 
all — that’s what it is. But I shall pull up, sir.” 

Godfrey was silent. He was not likely to be very pene¬ 
trating in his judgments, but he had always had a sense 
that his father’s indulgence had not been kindness, and 
had had a vague looking for some discipline that would 
have checked his own errant weakness, and helped his 
better will. The Squire ate his bread and meat hastily, 
took a deep draught of ale, then turned his chair from 
the table and began to speak again. 

“ It’ll be all the worse for you, you know — you’d 
need try and help me keep things together.” 

“ Well, sir, I’ve often offered to take the management 


SILAS MARNER. 


IOI 


of things, but you know you’ve taken it ill always, and 
seemed to think I wanted to push you out of your place.” 

“ I know nothing o’ your offering or o’ my taking it 
ill,” said the Squire, whose memory consisted in certain 
strong impressions unmodified by detail; “ but I know, 
one while you seemed to be thinking o’ marrying, and 1 
didn’t offer to put any obstacles in your way, as some 
fathers would. I’d as lieve you married Lammeter’s 
daughter as anybody. I suppose, if I’d said you nay, 
you’d ha’ kept on with it; but, for want o’ contradiction, 
you’ve changed your mind. You’re a shilly-shally fellow : 
you take after your poor mother. She never had a will 
of her own j a woman has no call for one, if she’s got a 
proper man for a husband. But your wife had need 
have one, for you hardly know your own mind enough to 
make both your legs walk one way. The lass hasn’t said 
downright she won’t have you, has she?” 

“ No,” said Godfrey, feeling very hot and uncomfort¬ 
able ; “ but I don’t think she will.” 

“Think! w'hy haven’t you the courage to ask her? 
Do you stick to it, you want to have her — that’s the 
thing? ” 

“ There’s no other woman I want to marry,” said 
Godfrey, evasively. 

“ Well, then, let me make the offer for you, that’s all, 
if you haven’t the pluck to do it yourself. Lammeter 
isn’t likely to be loath for his daughter to marry into my 
family, I should think. And as for the pretty lass, she 
wouldn’t have her cousin—and there’s nobody else, as 
I see, could ha’ stood in your way.” 

« I’d rather let it be, please sir, at present,” said God< 


102 


SILAS MARNER. 


frey, in alarm. " I think she’s a little offended with me 
just now, and I should like to speak for myself. A man 
must manage these things for himself.” 

“ Well, speak, then, and manage it, and see if you can’t 
turn over a new leaf. That’s what a man must do when 
he thinks o’ marrying.” 

“ I don’t see how I can think of it at present, sir. 
You wouldn’t like to settle me on one of the farms, I 
suppose, and I don’t think she’d come to live in this 
house with all my brothers. It’s a different sort of life 
to what she’s been used to.” 

“Not come to live in this house? Don’t tell me. 
You ask her, that’s all,” said the Squire, with a short, 
scornful laugh. 

“ I’d rather let the thing be, at present, sir,” said God¬ 
frey. “ I hope you won’t try to hurry it on by saying 
anything.” 

“ I shall do what I choose,” said the Squire, “ and I 
shall let you know I’m master; else you may turn out, 
and find an estate to drop into somewhere else. Go out 
and tell Winthrop not to go to Cox’s, but wait for me. 
And tell ’em to get my horse saddled. And stop: look 
out and get that hack o’ Dunsey’s sold, and hand me the 
money, will you? He’ll keep no more hacks at my 
expense. And if you know where he’s sneaking — I 
dare say you do — you may tell him to spare himself the 
journey o’ coming back home. Let him turn ostler, and 
keep himself. He shan’t hang on me any more.” 

“ I don’t know where he is, sir; and if I did, it isn’t 
my place to tell him to keep away,” said Godfrey, mov¬ 
ing towards the door. 


SILAS MARNER. 


103 


“ Confound it, sir, don’t stay arguing, but go and order 
my horse,” said the Squire, taking up a pipe. 

Godfrey left the room, hardly knowing whether he 
were more relieved by the sense that the interview was 
ended without having made any change in his position, 
or more uneasy that he had entangled himself still further 
in prevarication and deceit. What had passed about his 
proposing to Nancy had raised a new alarm, lest by some 
after-dinner words of his father’s to Mr. Lammeter he 
should be obliged absolutely to decline her when she 
seemed to be within his reach. He fled to his usual 
refuge, that of hoping for some unforeseen turn of for¬ 
tune, some favourable chance which would save him from 
unpleasant consequences — perhaps even justify his in¬ 
sincerity oy manifesting its prudence. And in this point 
of trusting to some throw of fortune’s dice, Godfrey can 
hardly be called specially old-fashioned. 1 Favourable 
Chance is the god of all men who follow their own de¬ 
vices instead of obeying a law they believe in. Let even 
a polished man of these days get into a position he is 
ashamed to avow, and his mind will be bent on all the 
possible issues that may deliver him from the calculable 
results of that position. Let him live outside his income, 
or shirk the resolute honest work that brings wages, and 
he will presently find himself dreaming of a possible 
benefactor, a possible simpleton who may be cajoled into 
using his interest, a possible state of mind in some pos¬ 
sible person not yet forthcoming. Let him neglect the 

1 George Eliot was an essayist before she became a novelist, and fre¬ 
quently, as in this passage, drops into the didactic style of the essay 

proper. 


104 


SILAS MARNER. 


responsibilities of his office, and he will inevitably anchor 
himself on the chance, that the thing left undone may 
turn out not to be of the supposed importance. Let him 
betray his friend’s confidence, and he will adore that 
same cunning complexity called Chance, which gives him 
the hope that his friend will never know. Let him for¬ 
sake a decent craft that he may pursue the gentilities of 
a profession to which nature never called him, and his 
religion will infallibly be the worship of blessed Chance, 
which he will believe in as the mighty creator of success. 
The evil principle deprecated in that religion, is the or¬ 
derly sequence by which the seed brings forth a crop 
after its kind. 1 

1 There are, in the author’s phrasing, numerous instances which show 
the influence of the English Bible. 


CHAPTER X. 


Justice Malam was naturally regarded in Tarley and 
Raveloe as a man of capacious mind, seeing that he 
could draw much wider conclusions without evidence 
than could be expected of his neighbours who were not 
on the Commission of the Peace. Such a man was not 
likely to neglect the clue of the tinder-box, and an in¬ 
quiry was set on foot concerning a pedlar, name un¬ 
known, with curly black hair and a foreign complexion, 
carrying a box of cutlery and jewellery, and wearing 
large rings in his ears. But either because inquiry was 
too slow-footed to overtake him, or because the descrip¬ 
tion applied to so many pedlars that inquiry did not 
know how to choose among them, weeks passed away, 
and there was no other result concerning the robbery 
than a gradual cessation of the excitement it had caused 
in Raveloe. Dunstan Cass’s absence was hardly a sub¬ 
ject of remark : he had once before had a quarrel with 
his father, and had gone off, nobody knew whither, to 
return at the end of six weeks, take up his old quarters 
unforbidden and swagger as usual. His own family, who 
equally expected this issue, with the sole difference that 
the Squire was determined this time to forbid him the 
old quarters, never mentioned his absence; and when 
his uncle Kimble or Mr. Osgood noticed it, the story of 
his having killed Wildfire, and committed some offence 

105 


io6 


SILAS MARNER. 


against his father was enough to prevent surprise. To 
connect the fact of Dunsey’s disappearance with that of 
the robbery occurring on the same day, lay quite away 
from the track of every one’s thought — even Godfrey’s, 
who had better reason than any one else to know what 
his brother was capable of. He remembered no men¬ 
tion of the weaver between them since the time, twelve 
years ago, when it was their boyish sport to deride him; 
and, besides, his imagination constantly created an alibi 1 
for Dunstan; he saw him continually in some congenial 
haunt, to which he had walked off on leaving Wildfire — saw 
him sponging on chance acquaintances, and meditating a 
return home to the old amusement of tormenting his 
elder brother. Even if any brain in Raveloe had put the 
said two facts together, I doubt whether a combination so 
injurious to the prescriptive respectability of a family with 
a mural monument and venerable tankards, would not have 
been suppressed as of unsound tendency. But Christ¬ 
mas puddings, brawn, and abundance of spirituous liquors, 
throwing the mental originality into the channel of night¬ 
mare, are great preservatives against a dangerous spon¬ 
taneity of waking thought. 

When the robbery was talked of at the Rainbow and 
elsewhere, in good company, the balance continued to 
waver between the rational explanation founded on the 
tinder-box, and the theory of an impenetrable mystery 
that mocked investigation. The advocates of the tinder- 
box-and-pedlar view considered the other side a muddle- 
headed and credulous set, who, because they themselves 
were wall-eyed, supposed everybody else to have the 
1 Evidence of his being elsewhere. 


SILAS MARNER. 


107 


same blank outlook; and the adherents of the inexplica¬ 
ble more than hinted Jiat their antagonists were animals 
inclined to crow before they had found any corn — mere 
skimming-dishes in point of depth — whose clear¬ 
sightedness consisted in supposing there was nothing 
behind a barn-door because they couldn’t see through 
it; so that, though their controversy did not serve to 
elicit the fact concerning the robbery, it elicited some 
true opinions of collateral importance. 

But while poor Silas’s loss served thus to brush the slow 
current of Raveloe conversation, Silas himself was feeling 
the withering desolation of the bereavement about which 
his neighbours were arguing at their ease. To any one 
who had observed him before he lost his gold, it might 
have seemed that so withered and shrunken a life as his 
could hardly be susceptible of a bruise, could hardly en¬ 
dure any subtraction but such as would put an end to it 
altogether. But in reality it had been an eager life, filled 
with immediate purpose which fenced him in from the 
wide, cheerless unknown. It had been a clinging life; 
and though the object round which its fibres had clung 
was a dead disrupted thing, it satisfied the need for 
clinging. But now the fence was broken down — the 
support was snatched away. Marner’s thoughts could 
no longer move in their old round, and were baffled by a 
blank like that which meets a plodding ant when the 
earth has broken away on its homeward path. The loom 
was there, and the weaving, and the growing pattern in 
the cloth; but the bright treasure in the hole under his 
feet was gone; the prospect of handling and counting it 
was gone: the evening had no phantasm of delight to 


SILAS MARNER. 


foS 

still the poor souPs craving. The thought of the money 
he would get by his actual work could bring no joy, for 
its meagre image was only a fresh reminder of his loss; 
and hope was too heavily crushed by the sudden blow 
for his imagination to dwell on the growth of a new 
hoard from that small beginning. 

He filled up the blank with grief. As he sat weaving, 
he every now and then moaned low, like one in pain : it 
was the sign that his thoughts had come round again to 
the sudden chasm — to the empty evening time. And all 
the evening as he sat in his loneliness by his dull fire, he 
leaned his elbows on his knees, and clasped his head 
with his hands, and moaned very low — not as one who 
seeks to be heard. 

And yet he was not utterly forsaken in his trouble. 
The repulsion Marner had always created in his neigh¬ 
bours was partly dissipated by the new light in which this 
misfortune had shown him. Instead of a man who had 
more cunning than honest folks could come by, and, 
what was worse, had not the inclination to use that cun¬ 
ning in a neighbourly way, it was now apparent that 
Silas had not cunning enough to keep his own. He was 
generally spoken of as a “ poor mushed creatur ”; and 
that avoidance of his neighbours, which had before been 
referred to his ill-will and to a probable addiction to 
worse company, was now considered mere craziness. 

This change to a kindlier feeling was shown in various 
ways. The odour of Christmas cooking being on the 
wind, it was the season when superfluous pork and black 
puddings are suggestive of charity in well-to-do families; 
and Silas’s misfortune had brought him uppermost in the 


SILAS MARNER. 


109 


memory of housekeepers like Mrs. Osgood. Mr. Crack- 
enthorp, too, while he admonished Silas that his money 
had probably been taken from him because he thought 
too much of it and never came to church, enforced the 
doctrine by a present of pig’s pettitoes, 1 well calculated 
to dissipate unfounded prejudices against the clerical 
character. Neighbours who had nothing but verbal 
consolation to give showed a disposition not only to 
greet Silas and discuss his misfortune at some length 
when they encountered him in the village, but also to 
take the trouble of calling at his cottage and getting him 
to repeat all the details on the very spot; and then they 
would try to cheer him by saying, “ Well, Master Marner, 
you’re no worse off nor other poor folks, after all; and 
if you was to be crippled, the parish ’ud give you a 
’lowance.” 

I suppose one reason why we are seldom able to com¬ 
fort our neighbours with our words is that our good-will 
gets adulterated, in spite of ourselves, before it can pass 
our lips. We can send black puddings and pettitoes 
without giving them a flavour of our own egoism; but 
language is a stream that is almost sure to smack of a 
mingled soil. There was a fair proportion of kindness 
in Raveloe; but it was often of a beery and bungling 
sort, and took the shape least allied to the compli¬ 
mentary and hypocritical. 

Mr. Macey, for example, coming one evening ex¬ 
pressly to let Silas know that recent events had given 
him the advantage of standing more favourably in the 
opinion of a man whose judgment was not formed 
1 The feet of young pigs. 


no 


SILAS MARNER. 


lightly, opened the conversation by saying, as soon as 
he had seated himself and adjusted his thumbs — 

“ Come, Master Marner, why you’ve no call to sit 
a-moaning. You’re a deal better off to ha’ lost your 
money, nor to ha’ kept it by foul means. I used to 
think, when you first come into these parts, as you were 
no better nor you should be; you were younger a deal 
than what you are now; but you were allays a staring, 
white-faced creatur, partly like a bald-faced calf, as I may 
say. But there’s no knowing; it isn’t every queer- 
looksed thing as Old Harry’s had the making of— 
I mean, speaking o’ toads and such; for they’re often 
harmless, and useful against varmin. And it’s pretty 
much the same wi’ you, as fur as I can see. Though 
as to the yarbs and stuff to cure the breathing, if you 
brought that sort o’ knowledge from distant parts, yon 
might ha’ been a bit freer of it. And if the knowledge 
wasn’t well come by, why, you might ha’ made up for it 
by coming to church reg’lar; for as for the children as 
the Wise Woman charmed, I’ve been at the christening 
of ’em again and again, and they took the water just as 
well. And that’s reasonable ; for if Old Harry’s a mind 
to do a bit o’ kindness for a holiday, like, who’s got any¬ 
thing against it ? That’s my thinking; and I’ve been 
clerk o’ this parish forty year, and I know, when the 
parson and me does the cussing of a Ash Wednesday, 1 
there’s no cussing o’ folks as have a mind to be cured 

1 This refers to the Commination service, an office for use on special 
occasions in the English Book of Common Prayer. It took its name 
from the opening prayer, which proclaims the anger of God against the 
impenitent. In this service, the Curses pronounced on Mount Ebal 
(see Deuteronomy xxvii, verse 14 to the end) are read. 


SILAS MARNER. 


Ill 


without a doctor, let Kimble say what he will. And 
so, Master Marner, as I was saying—for there’s windings 
i’ things as they may carry you to the fur end o’ the 
prayer-book afore you get back to ’em — my advice is, 
as you keep up your sperrits; for as for thinking you’re a 
deep un, and ha’ got more inside you nor ’ull bear day¬ 
light, I’m not o’ that opinion at all, and so I tell the 
neighbours. For, says I, you talk o’ Master Marner 
making out a tale — why, it’s nonsense, that is : it ’ud 
take a ’cute man to make a tale like that; and, says I, he 
looked as scared as a rabbit.” 

During this discursive address Silas had continued 
motionless in his previous attitude, leaning his elbows on 
his knees, and pressing his hands against his head. Mr. 
Macey, not doubting that he had been listened to, paused, 
in the expectation of some appreciatory reply, but Marner 
remained silent. He had a sense that the old man meant 
to be good-natured and neighbourly; but the kindness 
fell on him as sunshine falls on the wretched — he had no 
heart to taste it, and felt that it was very far off him. 

“ Come, Master Marner, have you got nothing to say 
to that ? ” said Mr. Macey, at last, with a slight accent of 
impatience. 

“ Oh,” said Marner, slowly, shaking his head between 
his hand, “ I thank you — thank you — kindly.” 

“ Ay, ay, to be sure: I thought you would,” said Mr. 
Macey; “and my advice is — have you got a Sunday 
suit?” 

“ No,” said Marner. 

“ I doubted it was so,” said Mr. Macey. " Now, let 
me advise you to get a Sunday suit: there’s Tookey, 


112 


SILAS MARNER. 


he’s a poor creatur, but he’s got my tailoring business, 
and some o’ my money in it, and he shall make a suit 
at a low price, and give you trust, and then you can 
come to church, and be a bit neighbourly. Why, you’ve 
never heared me say ‘ Amen ’ since you come into these 
parts, and I recommend you to lose no time, for it’ll be 
poor work when Tookey has it all to himself, for I mayn’t 
be equil to stand i* the desk at all, come another winter.” 
Here Mr. Macey paused, perhaps expecting some sign of 
emotion in his hearer; but not observing any, he went 
on. “ And as for the money for the suit o’ clothes, why, 
you get a matter of a pound a-week at your weaving, 
Master Mamer, and you’re a young man, eh, for ail you 
look so mushed. Why, you couldn’t ha’ been five-and- 
twenty when you come into these parts, eh ? ” 

Silas started a little at the change to a questioning 
tone, and answered mildly, “ I don’t know; I can’t 
rightly say — it’s a long while since.” 

After receiving such an answer as this, it is not surpris¬ 
ing that Mr. Macey observed, later in the evening at the 
Rainbow, that Marner’s head was “ all of a muddle,” and 
that it was to be doubted if he ever knew when Sunday 
came round, which showed him a worse heathen than 
many a dog. 

Another of Silas’s comforters, besides Mr. Macey, came 
to him with a mind highly charged on the same topic. 
This was Mrs. Winthrop, the wheelwright’s wife. The 
inhabitants of Raveloe were not severely regular in their 
church-going, and perhaps there was hardly a person in 
the parish who would not have held that to go to church 
every Sunday in the calendar would have shown a greedy 


SILAS MARNER. 


1*3 


desire to stand well with Heaven, and get an undue 
advantage over their neighbours — a wish to be better 
than the “ common run,” that would have implied a re¬ 
flection on those who had had godfathers and godmothers 
as well as themselves, and had an equal right to the 
burying-service. At the same time, it was understood to 
be requisite for all who were not household servants, or 
young men, to take the sacrament at one of the great 
festivals: Squire Cass himself took it on Christmas-day; 
while those who were held to be “ good livers V went to 
church with greater, though still with moderate, frequency. 

Mrs. Winthrop was one of these : she was in all respects 
a woman of scrupulous conscience, so eager for duties 
that life seemed to offer them too scantily unless she 
rose at half-past four, though this threw a scarcity of 
work over the more advanced hours of the morning, 
which it was a constant problem with her to remove. 
Yet she had not the vixenish temper which is sometimes 
supposed to be a necessary condition of such habits : 
she was a very mild, patient woman, whose nature it 
was to seek out all the sadder and more serious ele¬ 
ments of life, and pasture her mind upon them. She 
was the person always first thought of in Raveloe when 
there was illness or death in a family, when leeches were 
to be applied, or there was a sudden disappointment in a 
monthly nurse. She was a “ comfortable woman” — 
good-looking, fresh-complexioned, having her lips always 
slightly screwed, as if she felt herself in a sick-room with 
the doctor, or the clergyman present. But she was never 
whimpering; no one had seen her shed tears ; she was 
simply grave and inclined to shake her head and sigh, 
t 


SILAS MARNER. 


n 4 

almost imperceptibly, like a funeral mourner who is not 
a relation. It seemed surprising that Ben Winthrop, 
who loved his quart-pot and his joke, got along so well 
with Dolly; but she took her husband’s jokes and joviality 
as patiently as everything else, considering that “ men 
would be so,” and viewing the stronger sex in the light 
of animals whom it had pleased Heaven to make natur¬ 
ally troublesome, like bulls and turkey-cocks. 

This good wholesome woman could hardly fail to have 
her mind drawn strongly towards Silas Marner, now that he 
appeared in the light of a sufferer; and one Sunday after¬ 
noon she took her little boy Aaron with her, and went to 
call on Silas, carrying in her hand some small lard-cakes, 
flat paste-like articles, much esteemed in Raveloe. Aaron, 
an apple-cheeked youngster of seven, with a clean 
starched frill, which looked like a plate for the apples, 
needed all his adventurous curiosity to embolden him 
against the possibility that the big-eyed weaver might do 
him some bodily injury; and his dubiety was much in¬ 
creased when, on arriving at the Stone-pits, they heard 
the mysterious sound of the loom. 

“ Ah, it is as I thought,” said Mrs. Winthrop, sadly. 

They had to knock loudly before Silas heard them, 
but when he did come to the door he showed no im¬ 
patience, as he would once have done, at a visit that had 
been unasked for and unexpected. Formerly, his heart 
had been as a locked casket with its treasure inside; but 
now the casket was empty, and the lock was broken. 
Left groping in darkness, with his prop utterly gone, 
Silas had inevitably a sense, though a dull and half-de¬ 
spairing one, that if any help came to him it must come 


SILAS MARNER. 


XI 5 


from without ; and there was a slight stirring of expecta¬ 
tion at the sight of his fellow-men, a faint consciousness 
of dependence on their good-will. He opened the door 
wide to admit Dolly, but without otherwise returning her 
greeting than by moving the arm-chair a few inches as a 
sign that she was to sit down in it. Dolly, as soon as she 
was seated, removed the white cloth that covered her 
lard-cakes, and said in her gravest way — 

“ I’d a baking yisterday, Master Marner, and the lard- 
cakes turned out better nor common, and I’d ha’ asked 
you to accept some, if you’d thought well. I don’t eat 
such things myself, for a bit o’ bread’s what I like from 
one year’s end to the other; but men’s stomichs are 
made so comical, they want a change — they do, I know, 
God help ’em.” 

Dolly sighed gently as she held out the cakes to Silas, 
who thanked her kindly, and looked very close at them, 
absently, being accustomed to look so at everything he 
took into his hand — eyed all the while by the wondering 
bright orbs of the small Aaron, who had made an out¬ 
work of his mother’s chair, and was peeping round from 
behind it. 

“ There’s letters pricked on ’em,” said Dolly. “ I 
can’t read ’em myself, and there’s nobody, not Mr. 
Macey himself, rightly knows what they mean; but 
they’ve a good meaning, for they’re the same as is on 
the pulpit-cloth at church. What are they Aaron, my 
dear?” 

Aaron retreated completely behind his outwork. 

“Oh go, that’s naughty,” said his mother, mildly. 
“Well, whativer the letters are, they’ve a good meaning; 


SILAS MARNER. 


tl6 

and it's a stamp as has been in our house, Ben says, ever 
since he was a little un, and his mother used to put it on 
the cakes, and I’ve allays put it on too ; for if there’s any 
good, we’ve need of it i’ this world.” 

“ It’s I. H. S.,” 1 said Silas, at which proof of learning 
Aaron peeped round the chair again. 

“ Well, to be sure, you can read ’em off,” said Dolly. 
“ Ben’s read ’em to me many and many a time, but they 
slip out o’ my mird again; the more’s the pity, for they’re 
good letters, else they wouldn’t be in the church ; and so 
I,prick ’em on all the loaves and all the cakes, though 
sometimes they won’t hold, because o’ the rising — for, 
as I said, if there’s any good to be got, we’ve need on it 
i’ this world — that we have; and I hope they’ll bring 
good to you, Master Marner, for it’s wi’ that will I 
brought you the cakes; and you see the letters have 
held better nor common.” 

Silas was as unable to interpret the letters as Dolly, but 
there was no possibility of misunderstanding the desire to 
give comfort that made itself heard in her quiet tones. 
He said, with more feeling than before — “ Thank you — 
thank you kindly.” But he laid down the cakes and 
seated himself absently — drearily unconscious of any 
distinct benefit towards which the cakes and the letters, 
or even Dolly’s kindness, could tend for him. 

“Ah, if there’s good anywhere, we’ve need of it,” 
repeated Dolly, who did not lightly forsake a service¬ 
able phrase. She looked at Silas pityingly as she went 
on. “But you didn’t hear the church-bells this morn¬ 
ing, Master Marner? I doubt you didn’t know it was 

1 lesus Hominum Salvator , Jesus the Saviour of men. 


SILAS MARNER. 


II? 

Sunday. Living so lone here, you lose your count, 1 
dare say; and then, when your loom makes a noise, you 
can’t hear the bells, more partic’lar now the frost kills 
the sound.’* 

“ Yes, I did; I heard ’em,” said Silas, to whom Sunday 
bells were a mere accident of the day, and not part of its 
sacredness. There had been no bells in Lantern Yard. 

u Dear heart! ” said Dolly, pausing before she spoke 
again. “ But what a pity it is you should work of a 
Sunday, and not clean yourself—if you didn't go to 
church ; for if you’d a roasting bit, it might be as you 
couldn’t leave it, being a lone man. But there’s the 
bakehus, if you could make up your mind to spend a 
twopence on the oven now and then, not every week, 
in course—I shouldn’t like to do that myself, — you 
might carry your bit o’ dinner there, for it’s nothing but 
right to have a bit o’ summat hot of a Sunday, and not 
to make it as you can’t know your dinner from Saturday. 
But now, upo* Christmas-day, this blessed Christmas as 
is ever coming, if you was to take your dinner to the 
bakehus, and go to church, and see the holly and the 
yew, and hear the anthim, and then take the sacramen’, 
you’d be a deal the better, and you’d know which end 
you stood on, and you could put your trust i’ Them as 
knows better nor we do, seein’ you’d ha’ done what it 
lies on us all to do.” 

Dolly’s exhortation, which was an unusally long effort 
of speech for her, was uttered in the soothing persuasive 
tone with which she would have tried to prevail on a sick 
man to take his medicine, or a basin of gruel for which 
he had no appetite. Silas had never before been closely 


SILAS MARNER. 


118 

urged on the point of his absence from church, which had 
only been thought of as a part of his general queerness ; 
and he was too direct and simple to evade Dolly’s 
appeal. 

“ Nay, nay,” he said, “ I know nothing o’ church. I’ve 
never been to church.” 

“ No ! ” said Dolly, in a low tone of wonderment. Then 
bethinking herself of Silas’s advent from an unknown 
country, she said, “ Could it ha’ been as they’d no church 
where you was born?” 

“ Oh yes,” said Silas, meditatively, sitting in his usual 
posture of leaning on his knees, and supporting his head. 
“There was churches — a many — it was a big town. 
But I knew nothing of ’em— I went to chapel.” 1 

Dolly was much puzzled at this new word, but she was 
rather afraid of inquiring further, lest “chapel” might 
mean some haunt of wickedness. After a little thought, 
she said — 

“ Well, Master Marner, it’s niver too late to turn over 
a new leaf, and if you’ve never had no church, there’s no 
telling the good it’ll do you. For I feel so set up and 
comfortable as niver was, when I’ve been and heard the 
prayers, and the singing to the praise and glory o’ God, 
as Mr. Macey gives out — and Mr. Crackenthorp saying 
good words, and more partic’lar on Sacramen’ Day; and 
if a bit o’ trouble comes, I feel as I can put up wi’ it, for 
I’ve looked for help i’ the right quarter, and gev myself 
up to Them as we must all give ourselves up to at the 
last; and if we’n done our part, it isn’t to be believed as 

1 The places of worship of dissenting sects were called chapels oi 
meeting-houses. 


SILAS MARNER. 


119 

Them as are above us ’ull be worse nor we are, and come 
short o’ Their’n.” 

Poor Dolly’s exposition of her simple Raveloe theology 
fell rather unmeaningly on Silas’s ears, for there was no 
word in it that could rouse a memory of what he had 
known as religion, and his comprehension was quite 
baffled by the plural pronoun, which was no heresy of 
Dolly’s, but only her way of avoiding a presumptuous 
familiarity. He remained silent, not feeling inclined to 
assent to the part of Dolly’s speech which he fully 
understood — her recommendation that he should go 
to church. Indeed, Silas was so unaccustomed to talk 
beyond the brief questions and answers necessary for 
the transaction of his simple business, that words did 
not easily come to him without the urgency of a distinct 
purpose. 

But now, little Aaron, having become used to the 
weaver’s awful presence, had advanced to his mother’s 
side, and Silas, seeming to notice him for the first time, 
tried to return Dolly’s signs of good-will by offering the 
lad a bit of lard-cake. Aaron shrank back a little, and 
rubbed his head against his mother’s shoulder, but still 
thought the piece of cake worth the risk of putting his 
hand out for it. 

“ Oh, for shame, Aaron,” said his mother, taking him 
on her lap, however; “ why, you don’t want cake 
again yet awhile. He’s wonderful hearty,” she went 
on, with a little sigh — “ that he is, God knqws. He’s 
my youngest, and we spoil him sadly, for either me or 
the father must allays hev him in our sight — that we 
must.” 


120 


SILAS MARNER. 


She stroked Aaron’s brown head, and thought it must 
do Master Marner good to see such a “ pictur of a child ” 
But Marner, on the other side of the hearth, saw the neat- 
featured rosy face as a mere dim round, with two dark 
spots in it. 

“And he’s got a voice like a bird — you wouldn’t 
think,” Dolly went on ; “ he can sing a Christmas carril 
as his father’s taught him; and I take it for a token as 
he’ll come to good, as he can learn the good tunes so 
quick. Come, Aaron, stan’ up and sing the carril to 
Master Marner, come.” 

Aaron replied by rubbing his forehead against his 
mother’s shoulder. 

“ Oh, that’s naughty,” said Dolly, gently. “ Stan’ up, 
when mother tells you, and let me hold the cake till 
you’ve done.” 

Aaron was not indisposed to display his talents, even to 
an ogre, under protecting circumstances ; and after a few 
more signs of coyness, consisting chiefly in rubbing the 
back of his hands over his eyes, and then peeping be¬ 
tween them at Master Marner, to see if he looked anxious 
for the “ carril,” he at length allowed his head to be duly 
adjusted, and standing behind the table, which let him 
appear above it only as far as his broad frill, so that he 
looked like a cherubic head untroubled with a body, he 
began with a clear chirp, and in a melody that had the 
rhythm of an industrious hammer, — 

“ God rest you, merry gentlemen, 

Let nothing you dismay, 

For Jesus Christ our Saviour 
Was born on Christmas-day.” 


SILAS MARNER. 


131 


Dolly listened with a devout look, glancing at Marne* 
in some confidence that this strain would help to allure 
him to church. 

“ That’s Christmas music,” she said, when Aaron had 
ended, and had secured his piece of cake again. 
“ There’s no other music equil to the Christmas music — 
‘ Hark the erol angils sing.’ And you may judge what it 
is at church, Master Marner, with the bassoon and the 
voices, as you can’t help thinking you’ve got to a better 
place a’ready — for I wouldn’t speak ill o’ this world, see¬ 
ing as Them put us in it as knows best; but what wi’ the 
drink, and the quarrelling, and the bad illnesses, and the 
hard dying, as I’ve seen times and times, one’s thankful 
to hear of a better. The boy sings pretty, don’t he, 
Master Marner? ” 

“Yes,” said Silas, absently, “very pretty.” 

The Christmas carol, with its hammer-like rhythm, 
had fallen on his ears as strange music, quite unlike a 
hymn, and could have none of the effect Dolly contem¬ 
plated. But he wanted to show her that he was grateful, 
and the only mode that occurred to him was to offer 
Aaron a bit more cake. 

“Oh no, thank you, Master Marner,” said Dolly, 
holding down Aaron’s willing hands. “We must be 
going home now. And so I wish you good-bye, Master 
Marner; and if you ever feel anyways bad in your inside, 
as you can’t fend for yourself, I’ll come and clean up 
for you, and get you a bit o’ victual, and willing. But I 
beg and pray of you to leave off weaving of a Sunday, 
for it’s bad for soul and body — and the money as comes 
i’ that way ’ulJ be a bad bed to lie down on at the last, 


122 


SILAS MARNER. 


if it doesn’t fly away, nobody knows where, like the 
white frost. And you’ll excuse me being that free with 
you, Master Marner, for I wish you well — I do. Make 
your bow, Aaron.” 

Silas said “Good-bye, and thank you kindly,” as he 
opened the door for Dolly, but he couldn’t help feeling 
relieved when she was gone — relieved that he might 
weave again and moan at his ease. Her simple view of 
life and its comforts, by which she had tried to cheer 
him, was only like a report of unknown objects, which 
his imagination could not fashion. The fountains of 
human love and divine faith had not yet been unlocked, 
and his soul was still the shrunken rivulet, with only this 
difference, that its little groove of sand was blocked up, 
and it wandered confusedly against dark obstruction. 

And so, notwithstanding the honest persuasions of Mr. 
Macey and Dolly Winthrop, Silas spent his Christmas-day 
in loneliness, eating his meat in sadness of heart, though 
the meat had come to him as a neighbourly present. In 
the morning he looked out on the black frost that seemed 
to press cruelly on every blade of grass, while the half- 
icy red pool shivered under the bitter wind; but towards 
evening the snow began to fall, and curtained from him 
even that dreary outlook, shutting him close up with his 
narrow grief. And he sat in his robbed home through 
the livelong evening, not caring to close his shutters or 
lock his door, pressing his head between his hands and 
moaning, till the cold grasped him and told him that his 
fire was grey. 

Nobody in this world but himself knew that he was 
the same $ilas Marner who had once loved his fellow 


SILAS MARNER. 


123 


with tender love, and trusted in an unseen goodness. 
Even to himself that past experience had become dim. 

But in Raveloe village the bells rang merrily, and the 
church was fuller than all through the rest of the year, 
with red faces among the abundant dark-green boughs 
— faces prepared for a longer service than usual by an 
odorous breakfast of toast and ale. Those green boughs, 
the hymn and anthem never heard but at Christmas — 
even the Athanasian Creed 1 which was discriminated 
from the others only as being longer and of exceptional 
virtue, since it was only read on rare occasions — brought 
a vague exulting sense, for which the grown men could 
as little have found words as the children, that something 
great and mysterious had been done for them in heaven 
above and in earth below, which they were appropriat¬ 
ing by their presence. And then the red faces made 
their way through the black biting frost to their own 
homes, feeling themselves free for the rest of the day to 
eat, drink, and be merry, and using that Christian free¬ 
dom without diffidence. 

At Squire Cass’s family party that day nobody men¬ 
tioned Dunstan — nobody was sorry for his absence, or 
feared it would be too long. The doctor and his wife, 
uncle and aunt Kimble, were there, and the annual 
Christmas talk was carried through without any omissions, 
rising to the climax of Mr. Kimble’s experience when he 
walked the London hospitals thirty years back, together 

l This creed takes its name from Athanasius, a bishop of Alex¬ 
andria in the fourth century. It contains a detailed and emphatic 
avowal of the doctrine of the Trinity, and fully sets forth the scheme 
of redemption. 


124 


SILAS MARNER. 


with striking professional anecdotes then gathered. 
Whereupon cards followed, with Aunt Kimble’s annual 
failure to follow suit, and Uncle Kimble’s irascibility con¬ 
cerning the odd trick which was rarely explicable to him 
when it was not on his side, without a general visitation 
of tricks to see that they were formed on sound prin¬ 
ciples : the whole being accompanied by a strong steam¬ 
ing odour of spirits-and-water. 

But the party on Christmas-day, being a strictly family 
party, was not the pre-eminently brilliant celebration of 
the season at the Red House. It was the great dance 
on New Year’s Eve that made the glory of Squire Cass's 
hospitality, as of his forefathers’, time out of mind. This 
was the occasion when all the society of Raveloe and 
Tarley, whether old acquaintances separated by long 
rutty distances, or cooled acquaintances separated by 
misunderstandings concerning runaway calves, or ac¬ 
quaintances founded on intermittent condescension, 
counted on meeting and on comporting themselves with 
mutual appropriateness. This was the occasion on which 
fair dames who came on pillions sent their bandboxes 
before them, supplied with more than their evening 
costume ; for the feast was not to end with a single even¬ 
ing, like a paltry town entertainment, where the whole 
supply of eatables is put on the table at once, and bed¬ 
ding is scanty. The Red House was provisioned as if 
for a siege; and as for the spare feather-beds ready to be 
laid on floors, they were as plentiful as might naturally 
be expected in a family that had killed its own geese for 
many generations. 

Godfrey Cass was looking forward to this New Year’s 


SILAS MARNER. 


125 


Eve with a foolish reckless longing, that made him half 
deaf to his importunate companion, Anxiety. 

“ Dunsey will be coming home soon; there will be 
a great blow-up, and how will you bribe his spite to 
silence?” said Anxiety. 

“Oh, he won’t come home before New Year’s Eve, 
perhaps,” said Godfrey; “and I shall sit by Nancy then, 
and dance with her, and get a kind look from her in spite 
of herself.” 

“ But money is wanted in another quarter,” said Anx¬ 
iety, in a louder voice, “ and how will you get it without 
selling your mother’s diamond pin? And if you don’t 
get it . . . ?” 

“ Well, but something may happen to make things 
easier. At any rate, there’s one pleasure for me close at 
hand : Nancy is coming.” 

“Yes, and suppose your father should bring matters to 
a pass that will oblige you to decline marrying her — and 
to give your reasons ? ” 

“ Hold your tongue, and don’t worry me. I can see 
Nancy’s eyes, just as they will look at me, and feel her 
hand in mine already.” 

But Anxiety went on, though in noisy Christmas com¬ 
pany; refusing to be utterly quieted even by much 
drinking. 


CHAPTER XI . 1 


Some women, I grant, would not appear to advantage 
seated on a pillion, and attired in a drab joseph 2 and a 
drab beaver bonnet, with a crown resembling a small 
stew-pan; for a garment suggesting a coachman’s great¬ 
coat, cut out under an exiguity of cloth that would only 
allow of miniature capes, is not well adapted to conceal 
deficiencies of contour, nor is drab a colour that will throw 
sallow cheeks into lively contrast. It was all the greater 
triumph to Miss Nancy Lammeter’s beauty that she looked 
thoroughly bewitching in that costume, as, seated on the 
pillion behind her tall, erect father, she held one arm 
round him, and looked down, with open-eyed anxiety, 
at the treacherous snow-covered pools and puddles, which 
sent up formidable splashings of mud under the stamp of 
Dobbin’s foot. A painter would, perhaps, have preferred 
her in those moments when she was free from self-con¬ 
sciousness ; but certainly the bloom on her cheeks was at 
its highest point of contrast with the surrounding drab 
when she arrived at the door of the Red House, and saw 
Mr. Godfrey Cass ready to lift her from the pillion. She 
wished her sister Priscilla had come up at the same time 
behind the servant, for then she would have contrived that 

1 George Eliot, like Jane Austen, excels in describing the manners 
of country society. A vivid and truthful picture of a party such as that 
contained in this chapter has an historical as well as artistic value. 

a A jacket buttoned down the front, and worn with a riding skirt. 

126 


SILAS MARNER. 


127 


Mr. Godfrey should have lifted off Priscilla first, and, in 
the meantime, she would have persuaded her father to go 
round to the horse-block instead of alighting at the door¬ 
steps. It was very painful, when you had made it quite 
clear to a young man that you were determined not to 
marry him, however much he might wish it, that he would 
still continue to pay you marked attentions; besides, 
why didn’t he always show the same attentions, if he 
meant them sincerely, instead of being so strange as Mr. 
Godfrey Cass was, sometimes behaving as if he didn’t 
want to speak to her, and taking no notice of her for 
weeks and weeks, and then, all on a sudden, almost mak¬ 
ing love again? Moreover, it was quite plain he had no 
real love for her, else he would not let people have that 
to say of him which they did say. Did he suppose that 
Miss Nancy Lammeter was to be won by any man, squire 
or no squire, who led a bad life ? That was not what she 
had been used to see in her own father, who was the 
soberest and best man in that country-side, only a little 
hot and hasty now and then, if things were not done to 
the minute. 

All these thoughts rushed through Miss Nancy’s mind, 
in their habitual succession, in the moments between her 
first sight of Mr. Godfrey Cass standing at the door and 
her own arrival there. Happily, the Squire came out 
too, and gave a loud greeting to her father, so that, some¬ 
how, under cover of this noise, she seemed to find con¬ 
cealment for her confusion and neglect of any suitably 
formal behaviour, while she was being lifted from the 
pillion by strong arms, which seemed to find her ridicu¬ 
lously small and light. And there was the best reason foi 


128 


SILAS MARNER. 


hastening into the house at once, since the snow was be¬ 
ginning to fall again, threatening an unpleasant journey for 
such guests as were still on the road. These were a small 
minority; for already the afternoon was beginning to de¬ 
cline, and there would not be too much time for the ladies 
who came from a distance to attire themselves in readiness 
for the early tea which was to inspirit them for the dance. 

There was a buzz of voices through the house, as Miss 
Nancy entered, mingled with the scrape of a fiddle pre¬ 
luding in the kitchen; but the Lammeters were guests 
whose arrival had evidently been thought of so much that 
it had been watched for from the windows, for Mrs. 
Kimble, who did the honours at the Red House on these 
great occasions, came forward to meet Miss Nancy in 
the hall, and conduct her up-stairs. Mrs. Kimble was 
the Squire’s sister, as well as the doctor’s wife — a double 
dignity, with which her diameter was in direct proportion ; 
so that, a journey up-stairs being rather fatiguing to her, 
she did not oppose Miss Nancy’s request to be allowed 
to find her way alone to the Blue Room, where the Miss 
Lammeters’ bandboxes had been deposited on their 
arrival in the morning. 

There was hardly a bedroom in the house where 
feminine compliments were not passing and feminine 
toilettes going forward, in various stages, in space made 
scanty by extra beds spread upon the floor; and Miss 
Nancy, as she entered the Blue Room, had to make her 
little formal curtsy to a group of six. On the one 
hand, there were ladies no less important than the two 
Miss Gunns, the wine merchant’s daughters from Lyth- 
erly, dressed in the height of fashion, with the tightest 


SILAS MARNER. 


129 


skirts and the shortest waists, and gazed at by Miss 
Ladbrook (of the Old Pastures) with a shyness not 
unsustained by inward criticism. Partly, Miss Ladbrook 
felt that her own skirt must be regarded as unduly lax 
by the Miss Gunns, and partly, that it was a pity the Miss 
Gunns did not show that judgment which she herself 
would show if she were in their place, by stopping a little 
on this side of the fashion. On the other hand, Mrs. 
Ladbrook was standing, in skull-cap and front , 1 with her 
turban in her hand, curtsying and smiling blandly and 
saying, “ After you, ma’am,” to another lady in similar 
circumstances, who had politely offered the precedence 
at the looking-glass. 

But Miss Nancy had no sooner made her curtsy than 
an elderly lady came forward, whose full white muslin 
kerchief, and mob-cap 2 round her curls of smooth grey 
hair, were in daring contrast t^ith the puffed yellow satins 
and top-knotted caps of her neighbours. She approached 
Miss Nancy with much primness, and said, with a slow, 
treble suavity — 

“ Niece, I hope I see you well in health.” Miss Nancy 
kissed her aunt’s cheek dutifully, and answered, with the 
same sort of amiable primness, “Quite well, I thank 
you, aunt; and I hope I see you the same.” 

“ Thank you, niece; I keep my health for the present. 
And how is my brother-in-law ? ” 

These dutiful questions and answers were continued 
until it was ascertained in detail that the Lammeters were 

1 Her false hair or curls. 

2 A kind of old woman’s mutch, or close cap of linen or muslin tied 
with strings. 

K 


130 


SILAS MARNER. 


all as well as usual, and the Osgoods likewise, also that 
niece Priscilla must certainly arrive shortly, and that 
travelling on pillions in snowy weather was unpleasant, 
though a joseph was a great protection. Then Nancy 
was formally introduced to her aunt’s visitors, the Miss 
Gunns, as being the daughters of a mother known to 
their mother, though now for the first time induced to 
make a journey into these parts; and these ladies were 
so taken by surprise at finding such a lovely face and 
figure in an out-of-the-way country place; that they 
began to feel some curiosity about the dress she would 
put on when she took off her joseph. Miss Nancy, whose 
thoughts were always conducted with the propriety and 
moderation conspicuous in her manners, remarked to 
herself that the Miss Gunns were rather hard-featured 
than otherwise, and that such very low dresses as they 
wore might have been attributed to vanity if their shoul¬ 
ders had been pretty, but that, being as they were, it was 
not reasonable to suppose that they showed their necks 
from a love of display, but rather from some obligation 
not inconsistent with sense and modesty. She felt con¬ 
vinced, as she opened her box, that this must be her 
aunt Osgood’s opinion, for Miss Nancy’s mind resembled 
her aunt’s to a degree that everybody said was surprising, 
considering the kinship was on Mr. Osgood’s side; and 
though you might not have supposed it from the formal¬ 
ity of their greeting, there was a devoted attachment 
and mutual admiration between aunt and niece. Even 
Miss Nancy’s refusal of her cousin Gilbert Osgood (on 
the ground solely that he was her cousin), though it had 
grieved her aunt greatly, had not in the least cooled the 


SILAS MARNER. 


131 

preference which had determined her to leave Nancy 
several of her hereditary ornaments, let Gilbert’s future 
wife be whom she might. 

Three of the ladies quickly retired, but the Miss 
Gunns were quite content that Mrs. Osgood’s inclination 
to remain with her niece gave them also a reason for 
staying to see the rustic beauty’s toilette. And it was 
really a pleasure — from the first opening of the band- 
box, where everything smelt of lavender and rose-leaves, 
to the clasping of the small coral necklace that fitted 
closely round her little white neck. Everything belong¬ 
ing to Miss Nancy was of delicate purity and nattiness : 
not a crease was where it had no business to be, not 
a bit of her linen professed whiteness without fulfilling 
its profession; the very pins on her pincushion were 
stuck in after a pattern from which she was careful to 
allow no aberration; and as for her own person, it gave 
the same idea of perfect unvarying neatness as the body 
of a little bird. It is true that her light-brown hair was 
cropped behind like a boy’s, and was dressed in front 
in a number of flat rings, that lay quite away from her 
face; but there was no sort of coiffure that could make 
Miss Nancy’s cheek and neck look otherwise than pretty; 
and when at last she stood complete in her silvery twilled 
silk, her lace tucker, her coral necklace, and coral ear¬ 
drops, the Miss Gunns could see nothing to criticise 
except her hands, which bore the traces of butter-mak¬ 
ing, cheese-crushing, and even still coarser work. But 
Miss Nancy was not ashamed of that, for while she was 
dressing she narrated to her aunt how she and Priscilla 
had packed their boxes yesterday, because this morning 


132 


SILAS MARNER. 


was baking morning, and since they were leaving home, 
it was desirable to make a good supply of meat-pies 
for the kitchen; and as she concluded this judicious 
remark, she turned to the Miss Gunns that she might 
not commit the rudeness of not including them in the 
conversation. The Miss Gunns smiled stiffly, and 
thought what a pity it was that these rich country people, 
who could afford to buy such good clothes (really Miss 
Nancy’s lace and silk were very costly), should be 
brought up in utter ignorance and vulgarity. She actu¬ 
ally said “mate” for “meat,” “ ’appen ” for “perhaps,” 
and “oss” for “horse,” which, to young ladies living 
in good Lytherly society, who habitually said ’orse, even 
in domestic privacy, and only said ’appen on the right 
occasions, was necessarily shocking. Miss Nancy, in¬ 
deed, had never been to any school higher than Dame 
Tedman’s: her acquaintance with profane literature 
hardly went beyond the rhymes she had worked in her 
large sampler under the lamb and the shepherdess; and 
in order to balance an account, she was obliged to effect 
her subtraction by removing visible metallic shillings 
and sixpences from a visible metallic total. There is 
hardly a maid-servant in these days who is not better 
informed than Miss Nancy; yet she had the essential 
attributes of a lady — high veracity, delicate honor in 
her dealings, deference to others, and refined personal 
habits, — and lest these should not suffice to convince 
grammatical fair ones that her feelings can at all re¬ 
semble theirs, I will add that she was slightly proud and 
exacting, and as constant in her affection towards a base¬ 
less opinion as towards an erring lover. 


SILAS MARNER. 


133 


The anxiety about sister Priscilla, which had grown 
rather active by the time the coral necklace was clasped, 
was happily ended by the entrance of that cheerful- 
looking lady herself, with a face made blowsy by cold 
and damp. After the first questions and greetings, she 
turned to Nancy, and surveyed her from head to foot — 
then wheeled her round, to ascertain that the back view 
was equally faultless. 

“What do you think o’ these gowns, aunt Osgood?” 
said Priscilla, while Nancy helped her to unrobe. 

“Very handsome indeed, niece,” said Mrs. Osgood, 
with a slight increase of formality. She always thought 
niece Priscilla too rough. 

“ I’m obliged to have the same as Nancy, you know, 
for all I’m five years older, and it makes me look yallow; 
for she never will have anything without I have mine 
just like it, because she wants us to look like sisters. 
And I tell her, folks ’ull think it’s my weakness makes 
me fancy as I shall look pretty in what she looks pretty 
in. For I am ugly— there’s no denying that: I feature 
my father’s family. But, law! I don’t mind, do you?” 
Priscilla here turned to the Miss Gunns, rattling on in 
too much preoccupation with the delight of talking, to 
notice that her candour was not appreciated. “The 
pretty uns do for fly-catchers — they keep the men 
off us. I’ve no opinion o’ the men, Miss Gunn — 
I don’t know what you have. And as for fretting and 
stewing about what they' 11 think of you from morning 
till night, and making your life uneasy about what they’re 
doing when they’re out o’ your sight — as I tell Nancy, 
it’s a folly no woman need be guilty of, if she’s got 


•34 


SILAS MARNER. 


a good father and a good home : let her leave it to them 
as have got no fortin, and can’t help themselves. As 
I say, Mr. Have-your-own-way is the best husband, and 
the only one I’d ever promise to obey. I know it isn’t 
pleasant, when you’ve been used to living in a big way, 
and managing hogsheads and all that, to go and put 
your nose in by somebody else’s fireside, or to sit down 
by yourself to a scrag or a knuckle ; but, thank God ! 
my father’s a sober man and likely to live ; and if you’ve 
got a man by the chimney-corner, it doesn’t matter if 
he’s childish — the business needn’t be broke up.” 

The delicate process of getting her narrow gown over 
her head without injury to her smooth curls, obliged Miss 
Priscilla to pause in this rapid survey of life, and Mrs. 
Osgood seized the opportunity of rising and saying, 

“ Well, niece, you’ll follow us. The Miss Gunns will 
like to go down.” 

“ Sister,” said Nancy, when they were alone, “ you’ve 
offended the Miss Gunns, I’m sure.” 

“ What have I done, child?” said Priscilla, in some 
alarm. 

“ Why, you asked them if they minded about being 
ugly — you’re so very blunt.” 

“Law, did I? Well, it popped out; it’s a mercy I 
said no more, for I’m a bad un to live with folks when 
they don’t like the truth. But as for being ugly, look at 
me, child, in this silver-coloured silk — I told you how it 
’ud be — I look as yallow as a daffadil. Anybody ’ud 
say you wanted to make a mawkin of me.” 

“ No, Priscy, don’t say so. I begged and prayed of 
you not to let us have this silk if you’d like anqther bet- 


SILAS MARNER. 


*35 

ter. I was willing to have your choice, you know I was,” 
said Nancy, in anxious self-vindication. 

“ Nonsense, child, you know you’d set your heart on 
this; and reason good, for you’re the colour o’ cream. 
It ’ud be fine doings for you to dress yourself to suit my 
skin. What I find fault with, is that notion o’ yours as I 
must dress myself just like you. But you do as you like 
with me — you always did, from when first you begun to 
walk. If you wanted to go the field’s length, the field’s 
length you’d go; and there was no whipping you, for 
•you looked as prim and innicent as a daisy all the 
while.” 

" Priscy,” said Nancy, gently, as she fastened a coral 
necklace, exactly like her own, round Priscilla’s neck, 
which was very far from being like her own, “ I’m sure I’m 
willing to give way as far as is right, but who shouldn’t 
dress alike if it isn’t sisters? Would you have us go 
about looking as if we were no kin to one another — us 
that have got no mother and not another sister in the 
world ? I’d do what was right, if I dressed in a gown 
dyed with cheese-colouring; and I’d rather you’d choose, 
and let me wear what pleases you.” 

“ There you go again ! You’d come round to the 
same thing if one talked to you from Saturday night till 
Saturday morning. It will be fine fun to see how you’ll 
master your husband and never raise your voice above 
the singing o’ the kettle all the while. I like to see the 
men mastered ! ” 

“ Don’t talk so, Priscy,” said Nancy, blushing. “ You 
know I don’t mean ever to be married.” 

“ Oh, you never mean a fiddlestick’s end 1 ” said Pris* 


*36 


SILAS MARNER. 


cilia, as she arranged her discarded dress, and closed her 
bandbox. “ Who shall I have to work for when father’s 
gone, if you are to go and take notions in your head and 
be an old maid, because some folks are no better than 
they should be? I haven’t a bit o’ patience with you — 
sitting on an addled egg forever, as if there was never a 
fresh un in the world. One old maid’s enough out o’ 
two sisters; and I shall do credit to a single life, for God 
A’mighty meant me for it. Come, we can go down nowT 
I’m as ready as a mawkin can be — there’s nothing 
a-wanting to frighten the crows, now I’ve got my ear- 
droppers in.” 

As the two Miss Lammeters walked into the large par¬ 
lour together, any one who did not know the character of 
both, might certainly have supposed that the reason why 
the square-shouldered, clumsy, high-featured Priscilla 
wore a dress the facsimile of her pretty sister’s, was 
either the mistaken vanity of the one, or the malicious 
contrivance of the other in order to set off her own rare 
beauty. But the good-natured self-forgetful cheeriness 
and common-sense of Priscilla would soon have dissi¬ 
pated the one suspicion ; and the modest calm of Nancy’s 
speech and manners told clearly of a mind free from all 
disavowed devices. 

Places of honour had been kept for the Miss Lammeters 
near the head of the principal tea-table in the wainscoted 
parlour, now looking fresh and pleasant with handsome 
branches of holly, yew, and laurel, from the abundant 
growths of the old garden; and Nancy felt an inward 
flutter, that no firmness of purpose could prevent, when 
she saw Mr. Godfrey Cass advancing to lead her to a 


SILAS MARNER. 


137 


seat between himself and Mr. Crackenthorp, while Pris¬ 
cilla was called to the opposite side between her father 
and the Squire. It certainly did make some difference 
to Nancy that the lover she had given up was the young 
man of quite the highest consequence in the parish —at 
home in a venerable and unique parlour, which was the 
extremity of grandeur in her experience, a parlour, where 
she might one day have been mistress, with the con¬ 
sciousness that she was spoken of as “ Madam Cass,” the 
Squire’s wife. These circumstances exalted her inward 
drama in her own eyes, and deepened the emphasis with 
which she declared to herself that not the most dazzling 
rank should induce her to marry a man whose conduct 
showed him careless of his character, but that, “love 
once, love always,” was the motto of a true and pure 
woman, and no man should ever have any right over her 
which would be a call on her to destroy the dried flowers 
that she treasured, and always would treasure, for God¬ 
frey Cass’s sake. And Nancy was capable of keeping 
her word to herself under very trying conditions. Noth¬ 
ing but a becoming blush betrayed the moving thoughts 
that urged themselves upon her as she accepted the 
seat next to Mr. Crackenthorp; for she was so instinc¬ 
tively neat and adroit in all her actions, and her pretty 
lips met each other with such quiet firmness, that it 
would have been difficult for her to appear agitated. 

It was not the Rector’s practice to let a charming blush 
pass without an appropriate compliment. He was not in 
the least lofty or aristocratic, but simply a merry-eyed, 
small-featured, grey-haired man, with his chin propped by 
an ample, many-creased white neckcloth, which seemed 


SILAS MARNER. 


138 

to predominate over every other point in his person, and 
somehow to impress its peculiar character on his remarks; 
so that to have considered his amenities apart from his 
cravat, would have been a severe, and perhaps a danger¬ 
ous, effort of abstraction. 

“ Ha, Miss Nancy,” he said, turning his head within 
his cravat and smiling down pleasantly upon her, “ when 
anybody pretends this has been a severe winter, I shall 
tell them I saw the roses blooming on New Year’s Eve 
— eh, Godfrey, what do you say ? ” 

Godfrey made no reply, and avoided looking at Nancy 
very markedly; for though these complimentary per¬ 
sonalities were held to be in excellent taste in old-fash¬ 
ioned Raveloe society, reverent love has a politeness 
of its own which it teaches to men otherwise of small 
schooling. But the Squire was rather impatient at God¬ 
frey’s showing himself a dull spark in this way. By this 
advanced hour of the day, the Squire was always in 
higher spirits than we have seen him in at the breakfast- 
table, and felt it quite pleasant to fulfil the hereditary 
duty of being noisily jovial and patronising: the large 
silver snuff-box was in active service, and was offered 
without fail to all neighbours from time to time, however 
often they might have declined the favour. At present 
the Squire had only given an express welcome to the 
heads of families as they appeared : but always as the 
evening deepened, his hospitality rayed out more widely, 
till he had tapped the youngest guests on the back, and 
shown a peculiar fondness for their presence, in the full 
belief that they must feel their lives made happy by their 
belonging to a parish where there was such a hearty man 


SILAS MARNER. 


139 


as Squire Cass to invite them and wish them well. Even 
in this early stage of the jovial mood, it was natural that 
he should wish to supply his son’s deficiencies by looking 
and speaking for him. 

“Ay, ay,” he began, offering his snuff-box to Mr. 
Lammeter, who for the second time bowed his head and 
waved his hand in stiff rejection of the offer, “us old 
fellows may wish ourselves young to-night, when we see 
the mistletoe-bough in the White Parlour. It’s true, most 
things are gone back’ard in these last thirty years — the 
country’s going down since the old king fell ill. But 
when I look at Miss Nancy here, I begin to think the 
lasses keep up their quality; — ding me if I remember a 
sample to match her, not when I was a fine young fellow, 
and thought a deal about my pigtail. 1 No offence to 
you, madam,” he added, bending to Mrs. Crackenthorp, 
who sat by him, “I didn’t Vnovf you when you were as 
young as Miss Nancy here.” 

Mrs. Crackenthorp — a small blinking woman, who 
fidgeted incessantly with her lace, ribbons, and gold chain, 
turning her head about and making subdued noises, very 
much like a guinea-pig, that twitches its nose and solilo¬ 
quizes in all company indiscriminately — now blinked 
and fidgeted towards the Squire, and said, “ Oh no — no 
offence.” 

This emphatic compliment of the Squire’s to Nancy 
was felt by others besides Godfrey to have a diplomatic 
significance; and her father gave a slight additional 

1 As wigs began to go out of fashion towards the close of the eighteenth 
century, gentlemen wore their hair long and tied it behind with a ribbou 
in a kind of cue. 


*4° 


SILAS MARNEK. 


erectness to his back, as he looked across the table at 
her with complacent gravity. That grave and orderly 
senior was not going to bate a jot of his dignity by seem¬ 
ing elated at the notion of a match between his family 
and the Squire’s: he was gratified by any honour paid 
to his daughter; but he must see an alteration in several 
ways before his consent would be vouchsafed. His spare 
but healthy person, and high-featured firm face, that 
looked as if it had never been flushed by excess, was in 
strong contrast, not only with the Squire’s, but with the 
appearance of the Raveloe farmers generally — in accord¬ 
ance with a favourite saying of his own, that “ breed was 
stronger than pasture.” 

“ Miss Nancy’s wonderful like what her mother was, 
though ; isn’t she, Kimble ? ” said the stout lady of that 
name, looking round for her husband. 

But Doctor Kimble (country apothecaries in old days 
enjoyed that title without authority of diploma), being a 
thin and agile man, was flitting about the room with his 
hands in his pockets, making himself agreeable to his 
feminine patients, with medical impartiality, and being 
welcomed everywhere as a doctor by hereditary right — 
not one of those miserable apothecaries who canvass for 
practice in strange neighbourhoods, and spend all their 
income in starving their one horse, but a man of sub¬ 
stance, able to keep an extravagant table like the best of 
his patients. Time out of mind the Raveloe doctor had 
been a Kimble ; Kimble was inherently a doctor’s name ; 
and it was difficult to contemplate firmly the melancholy 
fact that the actual Kimble had no son, so that his prac¬ 
tice might one day be handed over to a successor with 


SILAS MARNER. 


141 


the incongruous name of Taylor or Johnson. But in that 
case the wiser people in Raveloe would employ Dr. Blick 
of Flitton — as less unnatural. 

“Did you speak to me, my dear?” said the authentic 
doctor, coming quickly to his wife’s side; but, as if fore¬ 
seeing that she would be too much out of breath to repeat 
her remark, he went on immediately — “ Ha, Miss 
Priscilla, the sight of you revives the taste of that super- 
excellent pork-pie. I hope the batch isn’t near an 
end.” 

“Yes, indeed, it is, doctor,” said Priscilla; “but I’ll 
answer for it the next shall be as good. My pork-pies 
don’t turn out well by chance.” 

“ Not as your doctoring does, eh, Kimble? — because 
folks forget to take your physic, eh ? ” said the Squire, 
who regarded physic and doctors as many loyal church¬ 
men regard the church and the clergy — tasting a joke 
against them when he was in health, but impatiently 
eager for their aid when anything was the matter with 
him. He tapped his box, 1 and looked around with a 
triumphant laugh. 

“Ah, she has a quick wit, my friend Priscilla has,” 
said the doctor, choosing to attribute the epigram to a 
lady rather than allow a brother-in-law that advantage 
over him. “ She saves a little pepper to sprinkle over 
her talk — that’s the reason why she never puts too much 
into her pies. There’s my wife, now, she never has an 
answer at her tongue’s end; but if I offend her, she’s 
sure to scarify my throat with black pepper the next day, 


1 Snuff-box. 


142 


SILAS MARNER. 


or else give me the colic with watery greens. That’s an 
awful tit-for-tat.” Here the vivacious doctor made a 
pathetic grimace. 

“ Did you ever hear the like ? ” said Mrs. Kimble, 
laughing above her double chin with much good-humour, 
aside to Mrs. Crackenthorp, who blinked and nodded, 
and amiably intended to smile, but the intention lost 
itself in small twitchings and noises. 

“ I suppose that’s the sort of tit-for-tat adopted in your 
profession, Kimble, if you’ve a grudge against a patient,” 
said the rector. 

“ Never do have a grudge against our patients,” said 
Mr. Kimble, “ except when they leave us: and then, you 
see, we haven’t the chance of prescribing for ’em. Ha, 
Miss Nancy,” he continued^uddenly, skipping to Nancy's 
side, “ you won’t forget your promise? You’re to save a 
dance for me, you know.” 

“ Come, come, Kimble, don’t be too for’ard,” said the 
Squire. “Give the young uns fair-play. There’s my 
son Godfrey ’ll be wanting to have a round with you if you 
run off with Miss Nancy. He’s bespoke her for the first 
dance, I’ll be bound. Eh, sir! what do you say?” he 
continued, throwing himself backward, and looking at 
Godfrey. “Haven’t you asked Miss Nancy to open the 
dance with you? ” 

Godfrey, sorely uncomfortable under this significant 
insistence about Nancy, and afraid to think where it 
would end by the time his father had set his usual 
hospitable example of drinking before and after supper, 
saw no course open but to turn to Nancy and say, with 
as little awkwardness as possible — 


SILAS MARNER. 


143 


“ No ; I’ve not asked her yet, but I hope she’ll con¬ 
sent — if somebody else hasn’t been before me.” 

“No, I’ve not engaged myself,” said Nancy, quietly, 
though blushingly. (If Mr. Godfrey founded any hopes 
on her consenting to dance with him, he would soon be 
undeceived; but there was no need for her to be 
uncivil.) 

“ Then I hope you’ve no objections to dancing with 
me,” said Godfrey, beginning to lose the sense that there 
was anything uncomfortable in this arrangement. 

“ No, no objections,” said Nancy, in a cold tone. 

“Ah, well, you’re a lucky fellow, Godfrey,” said 
uncle Kimble; “but you’re my godson, so I won’t stand 
in your way. Else I’m not so very old, eh, my dear?” 
he went on, skipping to his wife’s side again. “You 
wouldn’t mind my having a second after you were gone 
— not if I cried a good deal first ? ” 

“ Come, come, take a cup o’ tea and stop your tongue, 
do,” said good-humoured Mrs. Kimble, feeling some pride 
in a husband who must be regarded as so clever and 
amusing by the company generally. If he had only not 
been irritable at cards ! 

While safe, well-tested personalities were enlivening 
the tea in this way, the sound of the fiddle approaching 
within a distance at which it could be heard distinctly, 
made the young people look at each other with sympa¬ 
thetic impatience for the end of the meal. 

“ Why, there’s Solomon in the hall,” said the Squire, 
‘ and playing my fav’rite tune / believe — ‘The flaxen¬ 
headed plough-boy ’ — he’s for giving us a hint as we 
aren't enough in a hurry to hear him play. Bob,” he 


144 


SILAS MARNER. 


called out to his third long-legged son, who was at the 
other end of the room, “ open the door, and tell Solomon 
to come in. He shall give us a tune here.” 

Bob obeyed, and Solomon walked in, fiddling as he 
walked, for he would on no account break off in the 
middle of a tune. 

“ Here, Solomon,” said the Squire with loud patronage. 
“Round here, my man. Ah, I knew it was ‘The flaxen¬ 
headed plough-boy ’: there’s no finer tune.” 

Solomon Macey, a small hale old man with an abun¬ 
dant crop of long white hair reaching nearly to his 
shoulders, advanced to the indicated spot, bowing rever¬ 
ently while he fiddled, as much as to say that he re¬ 
spected the company though he respected the key-note 
more. As soon as he had repeated the tune and lowered 
his fiddle, he bowed again to the Squire and the rector, 
and said, “ I hope I see your honour and your reverence 
well, and wishing you health and long life and a happy 
New Year. And wishing the same to you Mr. Lammeter. 
sir; and to the other gentlemen, and the madams, and 
the young lasses.” 

As Solomon uttered the last words, he bowed in all 
directions solicitously, lest he should be wanting in due 
respect. But thereupon he immediately began to pre¬ 
lude, and fell into the tune which he knew would be 
\aken as a special compliment by Mr. Lammeter. 

“Thank ye, Solomon, thank ye,” said Mr. Lammeter 
when the fiddle paused again. “ That’s ‘ Over the hills 
and far away,’ that is. My father used to say to me, 
whenever we heard that tune, ‘Ah, lad, / come from over 
the hills and far away.’ There’s a many tunes I don’t 





» 


A QUAINT PROCESSION 
















































































































































SILAS MARNER. 


145 


make head or tail of ; but that speaks to me like the 
blackbird’s whistle. I suppose it’s the name : there’s a 
deal in the name of a tune.” 

But Solomon was already impatient to prelude again, 
and presently broke with much spirit into “ Sir Roger de 
Coverley,” at which there was a sound of chairs pushed 
back, and laughing voices. 

“ Ay, ay, Solomon, we know what that means,” said 
the Squire, rising. “ It’s time to begin the dance, eh ? 
Lead the way, then, and we’ll follow you.” 

So Solomon, holding his white head on one side, and 
playing vigorously, marched forward at the head of the 
gay procession into the White Parlour, where the mistle¬ 
toe-bough was hung, and multitudinous tallow candles 
made rather a brilliant effect, gleaming from among the 
berried holly-boughs, and reflected in the old-fashioned 
oval mirrors fastened in the panels of the white wainscot. 
A quaint procession ! Old Solomon, in his seedy clothes 
and long white locks, seemed to be luring that decent 
company by the magic scream of his fiddle — luring dis¬ 
creet matrons in turban-shaped caps, nay Mrs. Cracken- 
thorp herself, the summit of whose perpendicular feather 
was on a level with the Squire’s shoulder — luring fair 
lasses complacently conscious of very short waists and 
skirts blameless of front folds—luring burly fathers in 
large variegated waistcoats, and ruddy sons, for the most 
part shy and sheepish, in short nether garments and very 
long coat-tails. 

Already Mr. Macey and a few other privileged villagers, 
who were allowed to be spectators on these great occa¬ 
sions, were seated on benches placed for them near th<? 

L 


146 


SILAS MARNER. 


door; and great was the admiration and satisfaction in 
that quarter when the couples had formed themselves for 
the dance, and the Squire led off with Mrs. Crackenthorp, 
joining hands with the rector and Mrs. Osgood. That 
was as it should be — that was what everybody had been 
used to — and the charter of Raveloe seemed to be re¬ 
newed by the ceremony. It was not thought of as an 
unbecoming levity for the old and middle-aged people to 
dance a little before sitting down to cards, but rather as 
part of their social duties. For what were these if not to 
be merry at appropriate times, interchanging visits and 
poultry with due frequency, paying each other old-estab¬ 
lished compliments in sound traditional phrases, passing 
well-tried personal jokes, urging your guests to eat and 
drink too much out of hospitality, and eating and drink¬ 
ing too much in your neighbour’s house to show that you 
liked your cheer ? And the parson naturally set an exam¬ 
ple in these social duties. For it would not have been 
possible for the Raveloe mind, without a peculiar revela¬ 
tion, to know that a clergyman should be a pale-faced 
memento of solemnities, instead of a reasonably faulty 
man whose exclusive authority to read prayers and 
preach, to christen, marry, and bury you, necessarily co¬ 
existed with the right to sell you the ground to be buried 
in and to take tithe in kind; on which last point, of 
course, there was a little grumbling, but not to the extent 
of irreligion — not of deeper significance than the grum¬ 
bling at the rain, which was by no means accompanied 
with a spirit of impious defiance, out with a desire that 
the prayer for fine weather might be read forthwith. 

There was no reason, then, why the rector’s dancing 


alLAS MARNER. 


147 


should not be received as part of the fitness of things 
quite as much as the Squire’s, or why, on the other hand, 
Mr. Macey’s official respect should restrain him from sub¬ 
jecting the parson’s performance to that criticism with 
which minds of extraordinary acuteness must necessarily 
contemplate the doings of their fallible fellow-men. 

“ The Squire’s pretty springey, considering his weight,” 
said Mr. Macey, “ and he stamps uncommon well. But 
Mr. Lammeter beats ’em all for shapes : you see he holds 
his head like a sodger, and he isn’t so cushiony as most o’ 
the oldish gentlefolks — they run fat in general; and he’s 
got a fine leg. The parson’s nimble enough, but he hasn’t 
got much of a leg : it’s a bit too thick down’ard, and his 
knees might be a bit nearer wi’out damage; but he might 
do worse, he might do worse. Though he hasn’t that 
grand way o’ waving his hand as the Squire has.” 

“ Talk o’ nimbleness, look at Mrs. Osgood,” said Ben 
Winthrop, who was holding his son Aaron between his 
knees. “ She trips along with her little steps, so as no¬ 
body can see how she goes — it’s like as if she had little 
wheels to her feet. She doesn’t look a day older nor 
last year: she’s the finest-made woman as is, let the next 
be where she will.” 

“ I don’t heed how the women are made,” said Mr. 
Macey, with some contempt. “ They wear nayther coat 
nor breeches : you can’t make much out o’ their shapes.” 

“ Fayder,” said Aaron, whose feet were busy beating 
out the tune, “ how does that big cock’s-feather stick in 
Mrs. Crackenthorp’s yead ? Is there a little hole for it, 
like in my shuttlecock?” 

“ Hush, lad, hush; that’s the way the ladies dress their* 


148 


SILAS MARNER. 


selves, that is,” said the father, adding, however, in an 
undertone to Mr. Macey, “ It does make her look funny, 
though — partly like a short-necked bottle wi’ a long quill 
in it. Hey, by jingo, there’s the young Squire leading 
off now, wi’ Miss Nancy for partners. There’s a lass for 
you ! — like a pink-and-white posy — there’s nobody ’ud 
think as anybody could be so pritty. I shouldn’t wonder 
if she’s Madam Cass some day, arter all — and nobody 
more rightfuller, for they’d make a fine match. You can 
find nothing against Master Godfrey’s shapes, Macey, /’ll 
bet a penny. 

Mr. Macey screwed up his mouth, leaned his head 
farther on one side, and twirled his thumbs with a 
presto 1 movement as his eyes followed Godfrey up the 
dance. At last he summed up his opinion. 

" Pretty well down’ard, but a bit too round i’ the 
shoulder-blades. And as for them coats as he gets 
from the Flitton tailor, they’re a poor cut to pay double 
money for.” 

“ Ah, Mr. Macey, you and me are two folks,” said Ben, 
slightly indignant at this carping. “ When I’ve got a pot 
of good ale, I like to swaller it, and do my inside good, 
i’stead o’ smelling and staring at it to see if I can’t find 
faut wi’ the brewing. I should like you to pick me out 
a finer-limbed young fellow nor Master Godfrey — one 
as ’ud knock you down easier, or’s more pleasanter 
looksed when he’s piert and merry.” 

“Tchuh!” said Mr. Macey, provoked to increased 
severity, “ he isn’t come to his right colour yet; he’s 
partly like a slack-baked pie. And I doubt he’s got a 

1 Lively, an Italian musical term. 


SILAS MARNER. 


14* 


soft place in his head, else why should he be turned 
round the finger by that offal Dunsey as nobody’s seen o’ 
late, and let him kill that fine hunting hoss as was the 
talk o’ the country? And one while he was allays after 
Miss Nancy, and then it all went off again, like a smell 
o’ hot porridge, as I may say. That wasn’t my way when 
/ went a-coorting.” 

“ Ah, but mayhap, Miss Nancy hung off like, and your 
lass didn’t,” said Ben. 

“ I should say she didn’t,” said Mr. Macey, signifi¬ 
cantly. “ Before I said ‘ sniff,’ I took care to know as 
she’d say * snaff,’ and pretty quick too. I wasn’t a-going 
to open my mouth, like a dog at a fly, and snap it to 
again, wi’ nothing to swaller.” 

“Well, I think Miss Nancy’s a-coming round again,” 
said Ben, “ for Master Godfrey doesn’t look so down¬ 
hearted to-night. And I see he’s for taking her away 
to sit down, now they’re at the end of the dance: that 
looks like sweethearting, that does.” 

The reason why Godfrey and Nancy had left the dance 
was not so tender as Ben imagined. In the close press 
of couples a slight accident had happened to Nancy’s 
dress, which, while it was short enough to show her neat 
ankle in front, was long enough behind to be caught 
under the stately stamp of the Squire’s foot, so as to 
rend certain stitches at the waist, and cause much sisterly 
agitation in Priscilla’s mind, as well as serious concern in 
Nancy’s. One’s thoughts may be much occupied with 
love-struggles, but hardly so as to be insensible to a dis¬ 
order in the general framework of things. Nancy had 
no sooner completed her duty in the figure they were 


1 5 o 


SILAS MARNER. 


dancing than she said to Godfrey, with a deep blush, 
that she must go and sit down till Priscilla could come to 
her; for the sisters had already exchanged a short whis* 
per and an open-eyed glance full of meaning. No reason 
less urgent than this could have prevailed on Nancy to 
give Godfrey this opportunity of sitting apart with her. 
As for Godfrey, he was feeling so happy and oblivious 
under the long charm of the country-dance with Nancy, 
that he got rather bold on the strength of her confusion, 
and was capable of leading her straight away, without 
leave asked, into the adjoining small parlour, where the 
card-tables were set. 

“ O no, thank you,” said Nancy, coldly, as soon as 
she perceived where he was going, “ not in there. I’ll 
wait here till Priscilla’s ready to come to me. I’m 
sorry to bring you out of the dance and make myself 
troublesome.” 

“ Why, you’ll be more comfortable here by your¬ 
self,” said the artful Godfrey. “ I’ll leave you here till 
your sister can come.” He spoke in an indifferent 
tone. 

That was an agreeable proposition, and just what 
Nancy desired ; why, then, was she a little hurt that 
Mr. Godfrey should make it? They entered, and she 
seated herself on a chair against one of the card-tables, 
as the stiffest and most unapproachable position she 
could choose. 

“ Thank you, sir,” she said immediately. “ I needn’t 
give you any more trouble. I’m sorry you’ve had such 
an unlucky partner.” 

“ That’s very ill-natured of you,” said Godfrey, stand' 


SILAS MARNER. 


IS* 

ing by her without any sign of intended departure, “ to 
be sorry you’ve danced with me.” 

“ Oh no, sir, I don’t mean to say what’s ill-natured at 
all,” said Nancy, looking distractingly prim and pretty. 
“ When gentlemen have so many pleasures, one dance 
can matter but very little.” 

“You know that isn’t true. You know one dance 
with you matters more to me than all the other pleas¬ 
ures in the world.” 

It was a long, long while since Godfrey had said any¬ 
thing so direct as that, and Nancy was startled. But her 
instinctive dignity and repugnance to any show of emo¬ 
tion made her sit perfectly still, and only throw a little 
more decision into her voice, as she said — 

“ No, indeed, Mr. Godfrey, that’s not known to me, 
and I have very good reasons for thinking different. But 
if it’s true, I don’t wish to hear it.” 

“Would you never forgive me, then, Nancy — never 
think well of me, let what would happen — would you 
never think the present made amends for the past? Not 
if I turned a good fellow, and gave up everything you 
didn’t like?” 

Godfrey was half conscious that this sudden opportu¬ 
nity of speaking to Nancy alone had driven him beside 
himself, but blind feeling had got the mastery of his 
tongue. Nancy really felt much agitated by the possi¬ 
bility Godfrey’s words suggested, but this very pressure 
of emotion that she was in danger of finding too strong 
for her roused all her power of self-command. 

“ I should be glad to see a good change in anybody, 
Mr. Godfrey,” she answered, with the slightest discerni 


SILAS MARNER. 


tS2 

ble difference of tone, “ but it ’ud be better if no change 
was wanted.” 

“You’re very hard-hearted, Nancy,” said Godfrey, 
pettishly. “ You might encourage me to be a better fel¬ 
low. I’m very miserable — but you’ve no feeling.” 

“ I think those have the least feeling that act wrong to 
begin with,” said Nancy, sending out a flash in spite of 
herself. Godfrey was delighted with that little flash, and 
would have liked to go on and make her quarrel with 
him ; Nancy was so exasperatingly quiet and firm. But 
she was not indifferent to him yet. 

The entrance of Priscilla, bustling forwards and saying. 
“ Dear heart alive, child, let us look at this gown,” cut 
off Godfrey’s hopes of a quarrel. 

“ I suppose I must go now,” he said to Priscilla. 

“ It’s no matter to me whether you go or stay,” said 
that frank lady, searching for something in her pocket, 
with a preoccupied brow. 

“ Do you want me to go ? ” said Godfrey, looking at 
Nancy, who was now standing up by Priscilla’s order. 

“ As you like,” said Nancy, trying to recover all her 
former coldness, and looking down carefully at the hem 
of her gown. 

“Then I like to stay,” said Godfrey, with a reckless 
determination to get as much of this joy as he could 
to-night, and think nothing of the morrow. 


CHAPTER XII. 


While Godfrey Cass was taking draughts of forgetful¬ 
ness from the sweet presence of Nancy, willingly losing 
all sense of that hidden bond which at other moments 
galled and fretted him so as to mingle irritation with the 
very sunshine, Godfrey’s wife was walking with slow un¬ 
certain steps through the snow-covered Raveloe lanes, 
carrying her child in her arms . 1 

This journey on New Year’s Eve was a premeditated 
act of vengeance which she had kept in her heart ever 
since Godfrey, in a fit of passion, had told her he would 
sooner die than acknowledge her as his wife. There 
would be a great party at the Red House on New Year’s 
Eve, she knew : her husband would be smiling and smiled 
upon, hiding her existence in the darkest corner of his 
heart. But she would mar his pleasure : she would go in 
her dingy rags, with her faded face, once as handsome as 
the best, with her little child that had its father’s hair and 
eyes, and disclose herself to the Squire as his eldest son’s 
wife. It is seldom that the miserable can help regarding 
their misery as a wrong inflicted by those who are less 
miserable. Molly knew that the cause of her dingy rags 
was not her husband’s neglect, but the demon Opium 2 

1 A fine dramatic situation especially in its contrast with the scene 
Immediately preceding. 

2 For the extensive use of opium in England in the early part of this 
century see my edition of De Quincey’s Confessions , pp. 8, 186; also 
Kingsley’s Alton Locke , vol. i. p. 183. 

*53 


154 


SILAS MARNER. 


to whom she was enslaved, body and soul, except in the 
lingering mother’s tenderness that refused to give him 
her hungry child. She knew this well; and yet, in the 
moments of wretched unbenumbed consciousness, the 
sense of her want and degradation transformed itself 
continually into bitterness towards Godfrey. He was 
well off; and if she had her rights she would be well 
off too. The belief that he repented his marriage, and 
suffered from it, only aggravated her vindictiveness. 
Just and self-reproving thoughts do not come to us too 
thickly, even in the purest air and with the best lessons 
of heaven and earth; how should those white-winged 
delicate messengers make their way to Molly’s poisoned 
chamber, inhabited by no higher memories than those 
of a bar-maid’s paradise of pink ribbons and gentlemen’s 
jokes ? 1 

She had set out at an early hour, but had lingered on 
the road, inclined by her indolence to believe that if she 
waited under a warm shed the snow would cease to fall 
She had waited longer than she knew, and now that she 
found herself belated in the snow-hidden ruggedness of 
the long lanes, even the animation of a vindictive purpose 
could not keep her spirit from failing. It was seven 
o’clock, and by this time she was not very far from 
Raveloe, but she was not familiar enough with those 
monotonous lanes to know how near she was to her 
journey’s end. She needed comfort, and she knew but 
one comforter — the familiar demon in her bosom; but 
she hesitated a moment, after drawing out the black 

1 A good example of rapid characterisation, in which the whole story 
of the marriage is suggested without going into the pitiful details. 


SILAS MARNER. 


155 


remnant, before she raised it to her lips. In that mo¬ 
ment the mother’s love pleaded for painful consciousness 
rather than oblivion — pleaded to be left in aching weari¬ 
ness, rather than to have the encirling arms benumbed so 
that they could not feel the dear burden. In another 
moment Molly had flung something away, but it was not 
the black remnant — it was an empty phial. And she 
walked on again under the breaking cloud, from which 
there came now and then the light of a quickly veiled 
star, for a freezing wind had sprung up since the snowing 
had ceased. But she walked always more and more 
drowsily, and clutched more and more automatically the 
sleeping child at her bosom. 

Slowly the demon was working his will, and cold and 
weariness were his helpers. Soon she felt nothing but a 
supreme immediate longing that curtained off all futurity 
— the longing to lie down and sleep. She had arrived 
at a spot where her footsteps were no longer checked by 
a hedgerow, and she had wandered vaguely, unable to 
distinguish any objects, notwithstanding the wide whiteness 
around her, and the . growing starlight. She sank down 
against a straggling furze bush, an easy pillow enough; 
and the bed of snow, too, was soft. She did not feel 
that the bed was cold, and did not heed whether the 
child would wake and cry for her. But her arms had not 
yet relaxed their instinctive clutch; and the little one 
slumbered on as gently as if it had been rocked in a lace- 
trimmed cradle. 

But the complete torpor came at last: the fingers lost 
their tension, the arms unbent ; then the little head fell 
away trom the bosom, and the blue eyes opened wide on 


156 


SILAS MARNER. 


the cold starlight. At first there was a little peevish cry 
of “ mammy,” and an effort to regain the pillowing arm 
and bosom : but mammy’s ear was deaf, and the pillow 
seemed to be slipping away backwards. Suddenly, as the 
child rolled downwards on its mother’s knees, all wet with 
snow, its eyes were caught by a bright glancing light on 
the white ground, and, with the ready transition of 
infancy, it was immediately absorbed in watching the 
bright living thing running towards it, yet never.arriving. 
That bright living thing must be caught; and in an 
instant the child had slipped on all fours, and held out 
one little hand to catch the gleam. But the gleam would 
not be caught in that way, and now the head was held 
up to see where the cunning gleam came from. It came 
from a very bright place; and the little one, rising on its 
legs, toddled through the snow, the old grimy shawl in 
which it was wrapped trailing behind it, and the queer 
little bonnet dangling at its back — toddled on to the 
open door of Silas Marner’s cottage, and right up to the 
warm hearth, where there was a bright fire of logs and 
sticks, which had thoroughly warmed the old sack (Silas’s 
great-coat) spread out on the bricks to dry. The little 
one, accustomed to be left to itself for long hours without 
notice from its mother, squatted down on the sack, and 
spead its tiny hands towards the blaze, in perfect content¬ 
ment, gurgling and making many inarticulate communi¬ 
cations to the cheerful fire, like a new-hatched gosling 
beginning to find itself comfortable. But presently the 
warmth had a lulling effect, and the little golden head 
sank down on the old sack, and the blue eyes were veiled 
by their delicate half-transparent lids. 


SILAS MARNER. 


157 


But where was Silas Marner while this strange visitoi 
had come to his hearth ? He was in the cottage, but he 
did not see the child. During the last few weeks, since 
he had lost his money, he had contracted the habit of 
opening his door and looking out from time to time, as 
if he thought that his money might be somehow coming 
back to him, or that some trace, some news of it, might 
be mysteriously on the road, and be caught by the listen¬ 
ing ear or the straining eye. It was chiefly at night, when 
he was not occupied in his loom, that he fell into this 
repetition of an act for which he could have assigned no 
definite purpose, and which can hardly be understood 
except by those who have undergone a bewildering sepa¬ 
ration from a supremely loved object. In the evening 
twilight, and later whenever the night was not dark, Silas 
looked out on that narrow prospect round the Stone-pits, 
listening and gazing, not with hope, but with mere yearn¬ 
ing and unrest. 

This morning he had been told by some of his neigh¬ 
bours that it was New Year’s Eve, and that he must sit 
•up and hear the old year rung out and the new rung in, 
because that was good luck, and might bring his money 
back again. This was only a friendly Raveloe-way of 
jesting with the half-crazy oddities of a miser, but it had 
perhaps helped to throw Silas into a more than usually 
excited state. Since the on-coming of twilight he had 
opened his door again and again, though only to shut it 
immediately at seeing all distance veiled by the falling 
snow. But the last time he opened it the snow had 
ceased, and the clouds were parting here and there. He 
stood and listened, and gazed for a long while — there 


i 5 8 


SILAS MARNER. 


was really something on the road coming towards him 
then, but he caught no sign .of it; and the stillness and 
the wide trackless snow seemed to narrow his solitude, 
and touched his yearning with the chill of despair. He 
went in again, and put his right hand on the latch of the 
door to close it — but he did not close it: he was ar¬ 
rested, as he had been already since his loss, by the 
invisible wand of catalepsy, and stood like a graven 
image, with wide but sightless eyes, holding open his 
door, powerless to resist either the good or evil that 
might enter there. 

When Marner’s sensibility returned, he continued the 
action which had been arrested, and closed his door, 
unaware of the chasm in his consciousness, unaware of 
any intermediate change, except that the light had grown 
dim, and that he was chilled and faint He thought he 
had been too long standing at the door and looking out. 
Turning towards the hearth, where the two logs had fallen 
apart, and sent forth only a red uncertain glimmer, he 
seated himself on his fireside chair, and was stooping to 
push his logs together, when, to his blurred vision, it 
seemed as if there were gold on the floor in front of the 
hearth. Gold ! — his own gold — brought back to him 
as mysteriously as it had been taken away ! He felt his 
heart begin to beat violently, and for a few moments 
he was unable to stretch out his hand and grasp the 
restored treasure. The heap of gold seemed to glow 
and get larger beneath his agitated gaze. He leaned 
forward at last, and stretched forth his hand; but instead 
of the hard coin with the familiar resisting outline, his 
fingers encountered soft warm curls. In utter amaze- 








r- 



IT WAS A SLEEPING CHILD 


V 












































































































































SILAS MARNER. 


159 


ment, Silas fell on his knees and bent his head low to 
examine the marvel: it was a sleeping child — a round, 
fair thing, with soft yellow rings all over its head. Could 
this be his little sister come back to him in a dream — 
his little sister whom he had carried about in his arms 
for a year before she died, when he was a small boy 
without shoes or stockings? That was the first thought 
that darted across Silas’s blank wonderment. Was it 
a dream? He rose to his feet again, pushed his logs 
together, and, throwing on some dried leaves and sticks, 
raised a flame; but the flame did not disperse the vision 

— it only lit up more distinctly the little round form of 
the child, and its shabby clothing. It was very much 
like his little sister. Silas sank into his chair powerless, 
under the double presence of an inexplicable surprise 
and a hurrying influx of memories. How and when had 
the child come in without his knowledge ? He had never 
been beyond the door. But along with that question, 
and almost thrusting it away, there was a vision of the 
old home and the old streets leading to Lantern Yard 

— and within that vision another, of the thoughts which 
had been present with him in those far-off scenes. The 
thoughts were strange to him now, like old friendships 
impossible to revive; and yet he had a dreamy feeling 
that this child was somehow a message come to him 
from that far-off life : it stirred fibres that had never 
been moved in Raveloe — old quiverings of tenderness 

— old impressions of awe at the presentiment of some 
Power presiding over his life; for his imagination had 
not yet extricated itself from the sense of mystery in the 
child’s sudden presence, and had formed no conjectures 


l6o 


SILAS MARNER. 


of ordinary natural means by which the event could have 
been brought about. 

But there was a cry on the hearth: the child had 
awaked, and Marner stooped to lift it on his knee. It 
clung round his neck, and burst louder and louder into 
that mingling of inarticulate cries with “ mammy ” by 
which little children express the bewilderment of wak¬ 
ing. Silas pressed it to him, and almost unconsciously 
uttered sounds of hushing tenderness, while he bethought 
himself that some of his porridge, which had got cool by 
the dying fire, would do to feed the child with if it were 
only warmed up a little. 

He had plenty to do through the next hour. The 
porridge, sweetened with some dry brown sugar from an 
old store which he had refrained from using for himself, 
stopped the cries of the little one, and made her lift 
her blue eyes with a wide quiet gaze at Silas, as he put 
the spoon into her mouth. Presently she slipped from 
his knee and began to toddle about, but with a pretty 
stagger that made Silas jump up and follow her lest she 
should fall against anything that would hurt her. But 
she only fell in a sitting posture on the ground, and 
began to pull at her boots, looking up at him with a 
crying face as if the boots hurt her. He took her on 
his knee again, but it was some time before it occurred 
to Silas’s dull bachelor mind that the wet boots were the 
grievance, pressing on her warm ankles. He got them 
off with difficulty, and baby was at once happily occu¬ 
pied with the primary mysteiy of her own toes, inviting 
Silas, with much chuckling, to consider the mystery, too. 
But the wet boots had at last suggested to Silas that the 


SILAS MARNER. 


161 

child had been walking on the snow, and this roused 
him from his entire oblivion of any ordinary means by 
which it could have entered or been brought into his 
house. Under the prompting of this new idea, and 
without waiting to form conjectures, he raised the child 
in his arms. and went to the door. As soon as he had 
opened it, there was the cry of “ mammy ” again, which 
Silas had not heard since the child’s first hungry waking. 
Bending forward, he could just discern the marks made 
by the little feet on the virgin snow, and he followed 
their track to the furze bushes. “ Mammy ! ” the little 
one cried again and again, stretching itself forward so 
as almost to escape from Silas’s arms, before he himself 
was aware that there was something more than the bush 
before him — that there was a human body, with the 
head sunk low in the furze, and half-covered with the 
shaken snow. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


It was after the early supper-time at the Red House 
and the entertainment was in that stage when bashfulness 
itself had passed into easy jollity, when gentlemen, con¬ 
scious of unusual accomplishments, could at length be 
prevailed on to dance a hornpipe , 1 and when the Squire 
preferred talking loudly, scattering snuff, and patting his 
visitor’s backs, to sitting longer at the whist-table— a 
choice exasperating to Uncle Kimble, who, being always 
volatile in sober business hours, became intense and 
bitter over cards and brandy, shuffled before his adver¬ 
sary’s deal with a glare of suspicion, and turned up 
a mean trump-card with an air of inexpressible disgust, 
as if in a world where such things could happen one 
might as well enter on a course of reckless profligacy. 
When the evening had advanced to this pitch of free¬ 
dom and enjoyment, it was usual for the servants, the 
heavy duties of supper being well over, to get their share 
of amusement by coming to look on at the dancing; so 
that the back regions of the house were left in solitude. 

There were two doors by which the White Parlour was 
entered from the hall, and they were both standing open 
for the sake of air; but the lower one was crowded with 
the servants and villagers, and only the upper doorway 
was left free. Bob Cass was figuring in a hornpipe, and 

1 A dance performed usually by a single person to a lively tune. 

162 


SILAS MARNER 


163 


his father, very proud of his lithe son, whom he repeatedly 
declared to be just like himself in his young days in a 
tone that implied this to be the very highest stamp of 
juvenile merit, was the centre of a group who had placed 
themselves opposite the performer, not far from the 
upper door. Godfrey was standing a little way off, not 
to admire his brother’s dancing, but to keep sight of 
Nancy, who was seated in the group, near her father. 
He stood aloof, because he wished to avoid suggesting 
himself as a subject for the Squire’s fatherly jokes in 
connection with matrimony and Miss Nancy Lammeter’s 
beauty, which were likely to become more and more 
explicit. But he had the prospect of dancing with her 
again when the hornpipe was concluded, and in the 
meanwhile it was very pleasant to get long glances at her 
quite unobserved. 

But when Godfrey was lifting his eyes from one of 
those long glances, they encountered an object as start¬ 
ling to him at that moment as if it had been an apparition 
from the dead. It was an apparition from that hidden 
life which lies, like a dark by-street, behind the goodly 
ornamented facade that meets the sunlight and the gaze 
of respectable admirers. It was his own child carried 
in Silas Marner’s arms. That was his instantaneous 
impression, unaccompanied by doubt, though he had not 
seen the child for months past; and when the hope was 
rising that he might possibly be mistaken, Mr. Cracken- 
thorp and Mr. Lammeter had already advanced to Silas, 
in astonishment at this strange advent. Godfrey joined 
them immediately, unable to rest without hearing every 
word — trying to control himself, but conscious that if 


164 


SILAS MARNER. 


any one noticed him, they must see that he was white- 
lipped and trembling. 

But now all eyes at that end of the room were bent on 
Silas Marner; the Squire himself had risen, and asked 
angrily, “How’s this? — what’s this? what do you do 
coming in here in this way?” 

“ I’m come for the doctor — I want the doctor,” Silas 
had said, in the first moment, to Mr. Crackenthorp. 

“Why, what’s the matter, Marner?” said the rector. 
“ The doctor’s here ; but say quietly what you want him 
for.” 

“It’s a woman,” said Silas, speaking low, and half- 
breathlessly, just as Godfrey came up. “ She’s dead, I 
think — dead in the snow at the Stone-pits — not far 
from my door.” 

Godfrey felt a great throb : there was one terror in his 
mind at that moment: it was, that the woman might not be 
dead. That was an evil terror — an ugly inmate to have 
found a nestling-place in Godfrey’s kindly disposition; 
but no disposition is a security from evil wishes to a man 
whose happiness hangs on duplicity. 

“ Hush, hush ! ” said Mr. Crackenthorp. “ Go out 
into the hall. I’ll fetch the doctor to you. Found a 
woman in the snow—and thinks she’s dead,” he added, 
speaking low, to the Squire. “ Better say as little about 
it as possible : it will shock the ladies. Just tell them a 
poor woman is ill from cold and hunger. I’ll go and 
fetch Kimble.” 

By this time, however, the ladies had pressed forward, 
curious to know what could have brought the solitary 
linen-weaver there under such strange circumstances, and 


SILAS MARNER. 


16$ 


interested in the pretty child, who, half alarmed and 
half attracted by the brightness and the numerous 
company, now frowned and hid her face, now lifted 
up her head again and looked round placably, until 
a touch or a coaxing word brought back the frown, and 
made her bury her face with new determination. 

“What child is it?” said several ladies at once, and, 
among the rest, Nancy Lammeter, addressing Godfrey. 

“ I don’t know — some poor woman’s who has been 
found in the snow, I believe,” was the answer Godfrey 
wrung from himself with a terrible effort. (“After all, 
am I certain?” he hastened to add, in anticipation of 
his own conscience.) 

“ Why, you’d better leave the child here then, Master 
Marner,” said good-natured Mrs. Kimble, hesitating, 
however, to take those dingy clothes into contact with 
her own ornamented satin bodice. “ I’ll tell one o’ the 
girls to fetch it.” 

“No — no—I can’t part with it, I can’t let it go,” 
said Silas, abruptly. “ It’s come to me — I’ve a right to 
keep it.” 

The proposition to take the child from him had come 
to Silas quite unexpectedly, and his speech, uttered 
under a strong sudden impulse, was almost like a revela¬ 
tion to himself: a minute before, he had no distinct 
intention about the child. 

“Did you ever hear the like?” said Mrs. Kimble, in 
mild surprise, to her neighbour. 

“ Now, ladies, I must trouble you to stand aside,” said 
Mr. Kimble, coming from the card-room, in some bitter¬ 
ness at the interruption, but drilled by the long habit of 


166 


SILAS MARNER. 


his profession into obedience to unpleasant calls, even 
when he was hardly sober. 

“ It’s a nasty business turning out now, eh, Kimble ? n 
said the Squire. “ He might ha’ gone for your young 
fellow—the ’prentice, there — what’s his name?” 

“Might? ay — what’s the use of talking about might?” 
growled Uncle Kimble, hastening out with Marner, and 
followed by Mr. Crackenthorp and Godfrey. “ Get me 
a pair of thick boots, Godfrey, will you ? And stay, let 
somebody run to Winthrop’s and fetch Dolly — she’s the 
best woman to get. Ben was here himself before supper; 
is he gone ? ” 

“ Yes, sir, I met him,” said Marner; “ but I couldn’t 
stop to tell him anything, only I said I was going for the 
doctor, and he said the doctor was at the Squire’s. And 
I made haste and ran, and there was nobody to be seeQ 
at the back o’ the house, and so I went in to where the 
company was.” 

The child, no longer distracted by the bright light and 
the smiling women’s faces, began to cry and call for 
“ mammy,” though always clinging to Marner, who had 
apparently won her thorough confidence. Godfrey had 
come back with the boots, and felt the cry as if some 
fibre were drawn tight within him. 

“ I’ll go,” he said, hastily, eager for some movement; 
"I’ll go and fetch the woman — Mrs. Winthrop.” 

“O pooh — send somebody else,” said Uncle Kimble, 
hurrying away with Marner. 

“You’ll let me know if I can be of any use, Kimble,” 
said Mr. Crackenthorp. But the doctor was out of 


SILAS MARNER. 


167 


Godfrey, too, had disappeared : he was gone to snatch 
his hat and coat, having just reflection enough to remem¬ 
ber that he must not look like a madman ; but he rushed 
out of the house into the snow without heeding his thin 
shoes. 

In a few minutes he was on his rapid way to the Stone- 
pits by the side of Dolly, who, though feeling that she 
was entirely in her place in encountering cold and snow 
on an errand of mercy, was much concerned at a young 
gentleman’s getting his feet wet under a like impulse. 

“You’d a deal better go back, sir,” said Dolly, with 
respectful compassion. “You’ve no call to catch cold; 
and I’d ask you if you’d be so good as tell my husband 
to come, on your way back — he’s at the Rainbow, I 
doubt — if you found him anyway sober enough to be 0’ 
use. Or else, there’s Mrs. Snell ’ud happen send the boy 
up to fetch and carry, for there may be things wanted 
from the doctor’s.” 

“ No, I’ll stay, now I’m once out — I’ll stay outside 
here,” said Godfrey, when they came opposite Marner’s 
cottage. “ You can come and tell me if I can do any¬ 
thing.” 

“ Well, sir, you’re very good: you’ve a tender heart,” 
said Dolly, going to the door. 

Godfrey was too painfully preoccupied to feel a twinge 
of self-reproach at this undeserved praise. He walked 
up and down, unconscious that he was plunging ankle- 
deep in snow, unconscious of everything but trembling 
suspense about what was going on in the cottage, and the 
effect of each alternative on his future lot. No, not quite 
unconscious of everything else. Deeper down, and half- 


168 


SILAS MARNER. 


smothered by passionate desire and dread, there was 
the sense that he ought not to be waiting on these alter¬ 
natives ; that he ought to accept the consequences of his 
deeds, own the miserable wife, and fulfil the claims of 
the helpless child. But he had not moral courage enough 
to contemplate that active renunciation of Nancy as 
possible for him: he had only conscience and heart 
enough to make him forever uneasy under the weakness 
that forbade the renunciation. And at this moment his 
mind leaped away from all restraint towards the sudden 
prospect of deliverance from his long bondage. 

“ Is she dead? ” said the voice that predominated over 
every other within him. “ If she is, I may marry Nancy; 
and then I shall be a good fellow in future, and have no 
secrets, and the child—shall be taken care of somehow.” 
But across that vision came the other possibility — “ She 
may live, and then it’s all up with me.” 

Godfrey never knew how long it was before the door 
of the cottage opened and Mr. Kimble came out. He 
went forward to meet his uncle, prepared to suppress the 
agitation he must feel, whatever news he was to hear. 

“ I waited for you, as I’d come so far,” he said, speak¬ 
ing first. 

“ Pooh, it was nonsense for you to come out: why 
didn’t you send one of the men? There’s nothing to be 
done. She’s dead — has been dead for hours, I should 
sav.” 

“ What sort of woman is she ?” said Godfrey, feeling 
che blood rush to his face. 

“ A young woman, but emaciated, with long black hair. 
Some vagrant—quite in rags. She’s got a wedding-ring 


SILAS MARNER. 169 

on, however. They must fetch her away to the work- 
house to-morrow. Come, come along.” 

“ I want to look at her,” said Godfrey. “ I think I 
saw such a woman yesterday. I’ll overtake you in a 
minute or two.” 

Mr. Kimble went on, and Godfrey turned back to the 
cottage. He cast only one glance at the dead face on 
the pillow, which Dolly had smoothed with decent care; 
but he remembered that last look at his unhappy hated 
wife so well, that at the end of sixteen years every line 
in the worn face was present to him when he told the 
full story of this night. 

He turned immediately towards the hearth, where Silas 
Marner sat lulling the child. She was perfectly quiet 
now, but not asleep — only soothed by sweet porridge 
and warmth into that wide-gazing calm which makes us 
older human beings, with our inward turmoil, feel a cer¬ 
tain awe in the presence of a little child, such as we feel 
before some quiet majesty or beauty in the earth or 
sky — before a steady glowing planet, or a full-flowered 
eglantine, or the bending trees over a silent pathway. 
The wide-open blue eyes looked up at Godfrey’s without 
any uneasiness or sign of recognition: the child could 
make no visible audible claim on its father: and the 
father felt a strange mixture of feelings, a conflict of 
regret and joy, that the pulse of that little heart had no 
response for the half jealous yearning in his own, when 
the blue eyes turned away from him slowly, and fixed 
themselves on the weaver’s queer face, which was bent 
low down to look at them, while the small hand began to 
pull Marner’s withered cheek with loving disfiguration. 


SILAS MARNER. 


vjo 

“ You’ll take the child to the parish to-morrow?” 
asked Godfrey, speaking as indifferently as he could. 

“Who says so?” said Marner, sharply. “Will they 
make me take her?” 

“ Why, you wouldn’t like to keep her, should you — an 
old bachelor like you ? ” 

“ Till anybody shows they’ve a right to take her away 
from me,” said Marner. “ The mother’s dead, and I 
reckon it’s got no father: it’s a lone thing — and I’m a 
lone thing. My money’s gone, I don’t know where, — 
and this has come from I don’t know where. I know 
nothing — I’m partly mazed.” 1 

“ Poor little thing ! ” said Godfrey. “ Let me give 
something towards finding its clothes.” 

He had put his hand in his pocket and found half-a- 
guinea, and thrusting it into Silas’s hand, he hurried out 
cf the cottage to overtake Mr. Kimble. 

“ Ah, I see it’s not the same woman I saw,” he said, as 
he came up. “ It’s a pretty little child: the old fellow 
seems to want to keep it; that’s strange for a miser like 
him. But I gave him a trifle to help him out: the parish 
isn’t likely to quarrel with him for the right to keep the 
child.” 

“ No ; but I’ve seen the time when I might have quar- 
relied with him for it myself. It’s too late now, though. 
If the child ran into the fire, your aunt’s too fat to over¬ 
take it: she could only sit and grunt like an alarmed sow. 
But what a fool you are, Godfrey, to come out in your 
dancing shoes and stockings in this way — and you one 
of the beaux of the evening, and at your own house ! 

1 Dazed or half silly from astonishment, and unable to think clearly. 


SILAS MARNER. 


171 


What do you mean by such freaks, young fellow ? Has 
Miss Nancy been cruel, and do you want to spite her by 
spoiling your pumps? ” 

“ O, everything has been disagreeable to-night. I was 
tired to death of jigging and gallanting, and that bother 
about the hornpipes. And I’d got to dance with the 
other Miss Gunn,” said Godfrey, glad of the subterfuge 
his uncle had suggested to him. 

The prevarication and white lies which a mind that 
keeps itself ambitiously pure is as uneasy under as a great 
artist under the false touches that no eye detects but his 
own, are worn as lightly as mere trimmings when once 
the actions have become a lie. 

Godfrey reappeared in the White Parlour with dry feet, 
and, since the truth must be told, with a sense of relief 
and gladness that was too strong for painful thoughts to 
struggle with. For could he not venture now, whenever 
opportunity offered, to say the tenderest things to Nancy 
Lammeter — to promise her and himself that he would 
always be just what she would desire to see him? There 
was no danger that his dead wife would be recognized : 
those were not days of active inquiry and wide report; 
and as for the registry of their marriage, that was a long 
way off, buried in unturned pages, away from every one’s 
interest but his own. Dunsey might betray him, if he 
came back, but Dunsey might be won to silence. 

And when events turn out so much better for a man 
than he has had reason to dread, is it not a proof that 
his conduct has been less foolish and blameworthy than 
it might otherwise have appeared ? When we are treated 
well, we naturally begin to think that we are not alto- 


172 


SILAS MARNER. 


gether unmeritorious, and that it is only just we should 
treat ourselves well, and not mar our own good fortune. 
Where, after all, would be the use of his confessing the 
past to Nancy Lammeter, and throwing away his happi¬ 
ness?— nay, hers? for he felt some confidence that she 
loved him. As for the child, he would see that it was 
cared for: he would never forsake it; he would do every¬ 
thing but own it. Perhaps it would be just as happy in 
life without being owned by its father, seeing that nobody 
could tell how things would turn out, and that — is there 
any other reason wanted? — well, then, that the father 
would be much happier without owning the child. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


There was a pauper’s burial that week in Raveloe, and 
up Kench Yard at Batherley it was known that the dark¬ 
haired woman with the fair child, who had lately come 
to lodge there, was gone away again. That was all the 
express note taken that Molly had disappeared from the 
eyes of men. But the unwept death which, to the gen¬ 
eral lot, seemed as trivial as the summer-shed leaf, was 
charged with the force of destiny to certain human lives 
that we know of, shaping their joys and sorrows even to 
the end. 

Silas Marner’s determination to keep the “ tramp’s 
child ” was matter of hardly less surprise and iterated 
talk in the village than the robbery of his money. That 
softening of feeling towards him which dated from his 
misfortune, that merging of suspicion and dislike in a 
rather contemptuous pity for him as lone and crazy, was 
now accompanied with a more active sympathy, espe¬ 
cially amongst the women. Notable mothers, who knew 
what it was to keep children “ whole and sweet ” ; lazy 
mothers, who knew what it was to be interrupted in fold¬ 
ing their arms and scratching their elbows by the mis¬ 
chievous propensities of children just firm on their legs, 
were equally interested in conjecturing how a lone man 
would manage with a two-year-old child on his hands, 
and were equally ready with their suggestions: the nota' 
i73 


174 


SILAS MARNER. 


ble chiefly telling him what he had better do, and the 
lazy ones being emphatic in telling him what he would 
never be able to do. 

Among the notable mothers, Dolly Winthrop was the 
one whose neighbourly offices were the most acceptable 
to Marner, for they were rendered without any show of 
bustling instruction. Silas had shown her the half-guinea 
given to him by Godfrey, and had asked her what he 
should do about getting some clothes for the child. 

“Eh, Master Marner,” said Dolly, “ there’s no call to 
buy, no more nor a pair of shoes; for I’ve got the little 
petticoats as Aaron wore five years ago, and it’s ill spend¬ 
ing the money on them baby-clothes, for the child ’ull 
grow like grass i’ May, bless it — that it will.” 

And the same day Dolly brought her bundle, and dis¬ 
played to Marner, one by one, the tiny garments in their 
due order of succession, most of them patched and 
darned, but clean and neat as fresh-sprung herbs. 
This was the introduction to a great ceremony with soap 
and water, from which baby came out in new beauty, 
and sat on Dolly’s knee, handling her toes and chuckling 
and patting her palms together with an air of having 
made several discoveries about herself, which she com¬ 
municated by alternate sounds of “ gug-gug-gug,” and 
“mammy.” The “mammy” was not a cry of need or 
uneasiness: Baby had been used to utter it without 
expecting either tender sound or touch to follow. 

“ Anybody ’ud think the angils in heaven couldn’t be 
prettier,” said Dolly, rubbing the golden curls and kiss¬ 
ing them. “And to think of its being covered wi’ them 
dirty rags—and the poor mother — froze to death; but 


SILAS MARNER. 


175 


there’s Them as took care of it, and brought it to your 
door, Master Marner. The door was open, and it 
walked in over the snow, like as if it had been a little 
starved robin. ' Didn’t you say the door was open? ” 

“Yes,” said Silas, meditatively. “Yes — the door 
was open. The money’s gone I don’t know where, 
and this is come from I don’t know where.” 

He had not mentioned to any one his unconsciousness 
of the child’s entrance, shrinking from questions which 
might lead to the fact he himself suspected — namely, 
that he had been in one of his trances. 

“ Ah,” said Dolly, with soothing gravity, “ it’s like the 
night and the morning, and the sleeping and the waking, 
and the rain and the harvest — one goes and the other 
comes, and we know nothing how nor where. We may 
strive and scrat and fend, but it’s little we can do arter 
all — the big things come and go wi’ no striving o’ our’n 
— they do, that they do; and I think you’re in the right 
on it to keep the little un, Master Marner, seeing as it’s 
been sent to you, though there’s folks as thinks different. 
You’ll happen be a bit moithered with it while it’s so 
little ; but I’ll come, and welcome, and see to it for you : 
I’ve a bit o’ time to spare most days, for when one gets 
up betimes i’ the morning, the clock seems to stan’ still 
tow’rt ten, afore it’s time to go about the victual. So, 
as I say, I’ll come and see to the child for you, and 
welcome.” 

“Thank you . . . kindly,” said Silas, hesitating a 
little. “ I’ll be glad if you’ll tell me things. But,” he 
added uneasily, leaning forward to look at Baby with 
some jealousy, as she was resting her head backward 


176 


SILAS MARNER. 


against Dolly’s arm, and eying him contentedly from a 
distance — “ but I want to do things for it myself, else 
it may get fond o’ somebody else, and not fond o’ me. 
I’ve been used to fending for myself in the house — I 
can learn, I can learn.” 

“ Eh, to be sure,” said Dolly, gently. “ I’ve seen 
men as are wonderful handy wi’ children. The men are 
awk’ard and contrairy mostly, God help ’em — but when 
the drink’s out of ’em, they aren’t unsensible, though 
they’re bad for leeching and bandaging — so fiery and 
unpatient. You see this goes first, next the skin,” pro¬ 
ceeded Dolly, taking up the little shirt, and putting it on. 

“Yes,” said Marner, docilely, bringing his eyes very 
close, that they might be initiated in the mysteries; 
whereupon Baby seized his head with both her small 
arms, and put her lips against his face with purring 
noises. 

“ See there,” said Dolly, with a woman’s tender tact, 
“ she’s fondest o’ you. She wants to go o’ your lap, I’ll 
be bound. Go, then: take her, Master Marner; you 
can put the things on, and then you can say as you’ve 
done for her from the first of her coming to you.” 

Marner took her on his lap, trembling with an emo¬ 
tion mysterious to himself,, at something unknown dawn¬ 
ing on his life. Thought and feeling were so confused 
within him, that if he had tried to give them utterance, 
he could only have said that the child was come instead 
of the gold — that the gold had turned into the chili. 
He took the garments from Dolly, and put them on under 
her teaching; interrupted, of course, by Baby’s gym¬ 
nastics. 


SILAS MARNER. 


17? 


“ There, then ! why, you take to it quite easy, Master 
Marner,” said Dolly; “ but what shall you do when 
you’re forced to sit in your loom? For she’ll get busier 
and mischievouser every day — she will, bless her. It’s 
lucky as you’ve got that high hearth i’stead of a grate, 
for that keeps the fire more out of her reach : but if 
you’ve got anything as can be spilt or broke, or as is fit 
to cut her fingers off, she’ll be at it — and it is but right 
you should know.” 

Silas meditated a little while in some perplexity. " I’ll 
tie her to the leg o’ the loom,” he said at last — “ tie her 
with a good long strip o’ something.” 

“ Well, mayhap that’ll do, as it’s a little gell, for they’re 
easier persuaded to sit i’ one place nor the lads. I know 
what the lads are; for I’ve had four — four I’ve had, 
God knows — and if you was to take and tie ’em up, 
they’d make a fighting and a crying as if you was ringing 
the pigs . 1 But I’ll bring you my little chair, and some 
bits o’ red rag and things for her to play wi’; an’ she’ll 
sit and chatter to ’em as if they was alive. Eh, if it 
wasn’t a sin to the lads to wish ’em made different, bless 
’em, I should ha’ been glad for one of ’em to be a little 
gell; and to think as I could ha’ taught her to scour, and 
mend, and the knitting, and everything. But I can teach 
’em this little un, Master Marner, when she gets old 
enough.” 

“ But she’ll be my little un,” said Marner, rather has¬ 
tily. “ She’ll oe nobody else’s.” 

" No, to be sure ; you’ll have a right to her if you’re 


l Putting rings into the snouts of pigs to keep them from rooting. 


17 8 


SILAS MARNER. 


a father to her, and bring her up according. But,” added 
Dolly, coming to a point which she had determined be¬ 
forehand to touch upon, “ you must bring her up like 
christened folks’s children, and take her to church, and 
let her learn her catechise, as my little Aaron can say off 
— the * I believe,’ and everything, and ‘ hurt nobody by 
word or deed,’ — as well as if he was the clerk. That’s 
what you must do, Master Marner, if you’d do the right 
thing by the orphin child.” 

Marner’s pale face flushed suddenly under a new 
anxiety. His mind was too busy trying to give some 
definite bearing to Dolly’s words for him to think of 
answering her. 

“ And it’s my belief,” she went on, “ as the poor little 
creature has never been christened, and it’s nothing but 
right as the parson should be spoke to; and if you was 
noways unwilling, I’d like to talk to Mr. Macey about it 
this very day. For if the child ever went anyways wrong, 
and you hadn’t done your part by it, Master Marner — 
’noculation, and everything to save it from harm — it ’ua 
be a thorn i’ your bed for ever o’ this side the grave; and 
I can’t think as it ’ud be easy lying down for anybody 
when they’d got to another world, if they hadn’t done 
their part by the helpless children as come wi’out their 
own asking.” 

Dolly herself was disposed to be silent for some time 
now, for she had spoken from the depths of her own sim¬ 
ple belief, and was much concerned to know whether her 
words would produce the desired effect on Silas. He was 
puzzled and anxious, for Dolly’s word “ christened ” con¬ 
veyed no meaning to him. He had only heard of bap- 


SILAS MARNER. 


179 


tism, and had only seen the baptism of grown-up men 
and women. 

“ What is it as you mean by ‘ christened ’ ? ” he said at 
last, timidly. “ Won’t folks be good to her without it?” 

“ Dear, dear ! Master Marner,” said Dolly, with gentle 
distress and compassion. “ Had you never no father nor 
mother as taught you to say your prayers, and as there’s 
good words and good things to keep us from harm?” 

“ Yes,” said Silas in a low voice ; “ I know a deal about 
that — used to, used to. But your ways are different ; 1 
my country was a good way off.” He paused a few 
moments, then added, more decidedly, “ But I want to do 
everything as can be done for the child. And whatever’s 
right for it i’ this country, and you think ’ull do it good, 
I’ll act according, if you’ll tell me.” 

“Well, then, Master Marner,” said Dolly, inwardly 
rejoiced, “ I’ll ask Mr. Macey to speak to the parson 
about it; and you must fix on a name for it, because it 
must have a name giv’ it when it’s christened.” 

“ My mother’s name was Hephzibah,” said Silas, “and 
my little sister was named after her.” 

“ Eh, that’s a hard name,” said Dolly. “ I partly think 
it isn’t a christened name.” 

“ It’s a Bible name,” said Silas, old ideas recurring. 

“Then I’ve no call to speak again’ it,” said Dolly, 
rather startled by Silas’s knowledge on this head; “ but 
you see I’m no scholard, and I’m slow at catching the 
words. My husband says I’m allays like as if I was 
putting the haft for the handle — that’s what he says — 

1 This refers to the wide difference between the beliefs, service, and 
customs of Churchmen and Dissenters. 


SILAS MARNER. 


f8o 

for he’s very sharp, God help him. But it was awk’ard 
calling your little sister by such a hard name, when you’d 
got nothing big to say, like — wasn’t it, Master Marner ? ” 

“ We called her Eppie,” said Silas. 

“ Well, if it was noways wrong to shorten the name, it 
'ud be a deal handier. And so I’ll go now, Master 
Marner, and I’ll speak about the christening afore dark; 
and I wish you the best o’ luck, and it’s my belief as it’ll 
come to you, if you do what’s right by the orphin child; 
— and there’s the ’noculation to be seen to; and as to 
washing its bits o’ things, you need look to nobody but 
me, for I can do ’em wi’ one hand when I’ve got my suds 
about. Eh, the blessed angil! You’ll let me bring my 
Aaron one o’ these days, and he’ll show her his little 
cart as his father’s made for him, and the black-and-white 
pup as he’s got a-rearing.” 

Baby was christened, the rector deciding that a double 
baptism was the lesser risk to incur; and on this occasion 
Silas, making himself as clean and tidy as he could, ap¬ 
peared for the first time within the church, and shared in 
the observances held sacred by his neighbours. He was 
quite unable, by means of anything he heard or saw, to 
identify the Raveloe religion with his old faith; if he 
could at any time in his previous life have done so, it 
must have been by the aid of a strong feeling ready to 
vibrate with sympathy, rather than by a comparison of 
phrases and ideas; and now for long years that feeling 
had been dormant. He had no distinct idea about the 
baptism and the church-going, except that Dolly had said 
it was for the good of the child; and in this way, as the 
weeks grew to months, the child created fresh and fresh 


SILAS MAKNER. 


181 


links between his life and the lives from which he 
had hitherto shrunk continually into narrower isolation. 
Unlike the gold which needed nothing, and must be 
worshipped in close-locked solitude — which was hidden 
away from the daylight, was deaf to the song of birds, and 
started to no human tones — Eppie was a creature of 
endless claims and ever-growing desires, seeking and lov¬ 
ing sunshine, and living sounds, and living movements; 
making trial of everything, with trust in new joy, and stir¬ 
ring the human kindness in all eyes that looked on her. 
The gold had kept his thoughts in an ever-repeated circle, 
leading to nothing beyond itself; but Eppie was an object 
compacted of changes and hopes that forced his thoughts 
onward, and carried them far away from their old eager 
pacing towards the same blank limit — carried them away 
to the new things that would come with the coming years, 
when Eppie would have learned to understand how her 
father Silas cared for her; and made him look for images 
of that time in the ties and charities that bound together 
the families of his neighbours. The gold had asked that 
he should sit weaving longer and longer, deafened and 
blinded more and more to all things except the monotony 
of his loom and the repetition of his web; but Eppie 
called him away from his weaving, and made him think 
all its pauses a holiday, re-awakening his senses with her 
fresh life, even to the old winter flies that came crawling 
forth in the early spring sunshine, and warming him into 
joy because she had joy. 

And when the sunshine grew strong and lasting, so 
that the buttercups were thick in the meadows, Silas 
might be seen in the sunny mid-day, or in the late 


182 


SILAS MARNER. 


afternoon when the shadows were lengthening under 
the hedgerows, strolling out with uncovered head to 
carry Eppie beyond the Stone-pits to where the flowers 
grew, till they reached some favourite bank where he 
could sit down, while Eppie toddled to pluck the flowers 
and make remarks to the winged things that murmured 
happily above the bright petals, calling “ Dad-dad’s ” 
attention continually by bringing him the flowers. Then 
she would turn her ear to some sudden bird-note, and 
Silas learned to please her by making signs of hushed 
stillness, that they might listen for the note to come 
again: so that when it came, she set up her small back 
and laughed with gurgling triumph. Sitting on the 
banks in this way, Silas began to look for the once 
familiar herbs again; and as the leaves, with their un¬ 
changed outline and markings, lay on his palm, there 
was a sense of crowding remembrances from which he 
turned away timidly, taking refuge in Eppie’s little world, 
that lay lightly on his enfeebled spirit. 

As the child’s mind was growing into knowledge, his 
mind was growing into memory: as her life unfolded, 
his soul, long stupefied in a cold narrow prison, was 
unfolding too, and trembling gradually into full con¬ 
sciousness. 

It was an influence which must gather force with 
every new year: the tones that stirred Silas’s heart 
grew articulate, and called for more distinct answers; 
shapes and sounds grew clearer for Eppie’s eyes and 
ears, and there was more that “ Dad-dad ” was impera¬ 
tively required to notice and account for. Also, by the 
time Eppie was three years old, she developed a fine 


SILAS MARNER. 


183 


capacity for mischief, and for devising ingenious ways 
of being troublesome, which found much exercise, not 
only for Silas’s patience, but for his watchfulness and 
penetration. Sorely was poor Silas puzzled on such 
occasions by the incompatible demands of love. Dolly 
Winthrop told him punishment was good for Eppie, and 
thac as for rearing a child without making it tingle a 
little in soft and safe places now and then, it was not 
to be done. 

“To be sure, there’s another thing you might do, 
Master Marner,” added Dolly, meditatively : “ you might 
shut her up once i’ the coal-hole. That was what I did 
wi’ Aaron; for I was that silly wi’ the youngest lad, as I 
could never bear to smack him. Not as I could find 
i’ my heart to let him stay i’ the coal-hole more nor a 
minute, but it was enough to colly him all over, so as he 
must be new washed and dressed, and it was as good as 
a rod to him — that was. But I put it upo’ your con¬ 
science, Master Marner, as there’s one of ’em you must 
choose — ayther smacking or the coal-hole — else she’ll 
get so masterful, there’ll be no holding her.” 

Silas was impressed with the melancholy truth of this 
last remark; but his force of mind failed before the only 
two penal methods open to him, not only because it was 
painful to him to hurt Eppie, but because he trembled 
at a moment’s contention with her, lest she should love 
him the less for it. Let even an affectionate Goliath get 
himself tied to a small tender thing, dreading to hurt it 
by pulling, and dreading still more to snap the cord, and 
which of the two, pray, will be master? It was clear 
that Eppie, with her short toddling steps, must lead 


SILAS MARNER. 


184 

father Silas a pretty dance on any fine morning when 
circumstances favoured mischief. 

For example. He had wisely chosen a broad strip of 
linen as a means of fastening her to his loom when he 
was busy: it made a broad belt round her waist, and was 
long enough to allow of her reaching the truckle-bed and 
sitting down on it, but not long enough for her to attempt 
any dangerous climbing. One bright summer’s morning 
Silas had been more engrossed than usual in “setting 
up ” a new piece of work, an occasion on which his 
scissors were in requisition. These scissors, owing to an 
especial warning of Dolly’s, had been kept carefully out 
of Eppie’s reach; but the click of them had had a 
peculiar attraction for her ear, and, watching the results 
of that click, she had derived the philosophic lesson 
that the same cause would produce the same effect. 
Silas had seated himself in his loom, and the noise of 
weaving had begun; but he had left his scissors on a 
ledge which Eppie’s arm was long enough to reach; and 
now, like a small mouse, watching her opportunity, she 
stole quietly from her corner, secured the scissors, and 
toddled to the bed again, setting up her back as a mode 
of concealing the fact. She had a distinct intention as 
to the use of the scissors; and having cut the linen strip 
in a jagged but effectual manner, in two moments she 
had run out at the open door where the sunshine was 
inviting her, while poor Silas believed her to be a bettei 
child than usual. It was not until he happened to need 
his scissors that the terrible fact burst upon him : Eppie 
had run out by herself—had perhaps fallen into the 
Stone-pit. Silas, shaken by the worst fear that could 


SILAS MARNER. 


185 

have befallen him, rushed out, calling “ Eppie ! ” and 
ran eagerly about the unenclosed space, exploring the 
dry cavities into which she might have fallen, and then 
gazing with questioning dread at the smooth red surface 
)f the water. The cold drops stood on his brow. How 
long had she been out? There was one hope — that she 
had crept through the stile and got into the fields, where 
he habitually took her to stroll. But the grass was high 
in the meadow, and there was no descrying her, if she 
were there, except by a close search that would be a 
trespass on Mr. Osgood’s crop. Still, that misdemeanour 
must be committed; and poor Silas, after peering all 
round the hedgerows, traversed the grass, beginning with 
perturbed vision to see Eppie behind every group of red 
sorrel, and to see her moving always farther off as he 
approached. The meadow was searched in vain; and 
he got over the stile into the next field, looking with 
dying hope toward a small pond which was now reduced 
to its summer shallowness, so as to leave a wide margin 
of good adhesive mud. Here, however, sat Eppie, dis¬ 
coursing cheerfully to her own small boot, which she was 
using as a bucket to convey the water into a deep hoof- 
mark, while her little naked foot was planted comfort¬ 
ably on a cushion of olive-green mud. A red-headed 
calf was observing her with alarmed doubt through the 
opposite hedge. 

Here was clearly a case of aberration in a christened 
child which demanded severe treatment; but Silas, over¬ 
come with convulsive joy at finding his treasure again, 
could do nothing but snatch her up, and cover her with 
half-sobbing kisses. It was not until he had carried her 


186 


SILAS MARNER. 


home, and had begun to think of the necessary washing, 
that he recollected the need that he should punish Eppie, 
and “ make her remember.” The idea that she might 
run away again and come to harm, gave him unusual 
resolution, and for the first time he determined to try 
the coal-hole — a small closet near the hearth. 

“ Naughty, naughty Eppie,” he suddenly began, hold¬ 
ing her on his knee, and pointing to her muddy feet and 
clothes — “ naughty to cut with the scissors and run away. 
Eppie must go into the coal-hole for being naughty. 
Daddy must put her in the coal-hole.” 

He half expected that this would be shock enough, 
and that Eppie would begin to cry. But instead of that, 
she began to shake herself on his knee, as if the propo¬ 
sition opened a pleasing novelty. Seeing that he must 
proceed to extremities, he put her into the coal-hole and 
held the door closed, with a trembling sense that he was 
using a strong measure. For a moment there was silence, 
but then came a cry, “ Opy, opy ! ” and Silas let her out 
again, saying, “ Now Eppie ’ull never be naughty again, 
else she must go in the coal-hole — a black naughty place.” 

The weaving must stand still a long while this morning, 
for now Eppie must be washed, and have clean clothes 
on; but it was to be hoped that this punishment would 
have a lasting effect, and save time in future — though, 
perhaps, it would have been better if Eppie had cried 
more. 

In half an hour she was clean again, and Silas, having 
turned his back to see what he could do with the linen 
band, threw it down again, with the reflection that Eppie 
would be good without fastening for the rest of the 


SILAS MARNER. 


187 


morning. He turned round again, and was going to 
place her in her little chair near the loom, when she 
peeped out at him with black face and hands again, and 
said “ Eppie in de toal-hole ! ” 

This total failure of the coal-hole discipline shook 
Silas’s belief in the efficacy of punishment. “ She’d take 
it all for fun,” he observed to Dolly, “if I didn’t hurt her, 
and that I can’t do, Mrs. Winthrop. If she makes me a 
bit o’ trouble, I can bear it. And she’s got no tricks but 
what she’ll grow out of.” 

“Well, that’s partly true, Master Marner,” said Dolly, 
sympathetically; “ and if you can’t bring your mind to 
frighten her off touching things, you must do what you 
can to keep ’em out of her way. That’s what I do wi’ 
the pups as the lads are allays a-rearing. They will 
worry and gnaw—worry and gnaw they will, if it was 
one’s Sunday cap as hung anywhere so as they could drag 
it. They know no difference, God help ’em : it’s the 
pushing o’ the teeth as sets ’em on, that’s what it is.” 

So Eppie was reared without punishment, the burden 
of her misdeeds being borne vicariously by father Silas. 
The stone hut was made a soft nest for her, lined with 
downy patience : and also in the world that lay beyond 
the stone hut she knew nothing of frowns and denials. 

Notwithstanding the difficulty of carrying her and his 
yarn or linen at the same time, Silas took her with him 
in most of his journeys to the farm-houses, unwilling to 
leave her behind at Dolly Winthrop’s, who was always 
ready to take care of her : and little curly-headed Eppie, 
the weaver’s child, became an object of interest at 
several outlying homesteads, as well as in the village. 


188 


SILAS MARNER. 


Hitherto he had been treated very much as if he had 
been a useful gnome or brownie — a queer and unac¬ 
countable creature, who must necessarily be looked at 
with wondering curiosity and repulsion, and with whom 
one would be glad to make all greetings and bargains as 
brief as possible, but who must be dealt with in a propi¬ 
tiatory way, and occasionally have a present of pork or 
garden-stuff to carry home with him, seeing that without 
him there was no getting the yarn woven. But now 
Silas met with open smiling faces and cheerful question¬ 
ing, as a person whose satisfactions and difficulties 
could be understood. Everywhere he must sit a little 
and talk about the child, and words of interest were 
always ready for him: “ Ah, Master Marner, you’ll be 
lucky if she takes the measles soon and easy ! ” — or, 
“ Why, there isn’t many lone men ’ud ha’ been wishing 
to take up with a little un like that: but I reckon the 
weaving makes you handier than men as do out-door 
work — you’re partly as handy as a woman, for weaving 
comes next to spinning.” Elderly masters and mistresses, 
seated observantly in large kitchen arm-chairs, shook 
their heads over the difficulties attendant on rearing 
children, felt Eppie’s round arms and legs, and pro¬ 
nounced them remarkably firm, and told Silas that, if she 
turned out well (which, however, there was no telling), 
it would be a fine thing for him to have a steady lass to 
do for him when he got helpless. Servant maidens were 
fond of carrying her out to look at the hens and chickens, 
or to see if any cherries could be shaken down in the 
orchard; and the small boys and girls approached her 
slowly, with cautious movement and steady gaze, like 


SILAS MARNER. 


189 


little dogs face to face with one of their own kind, till 
attraction had reached the point at which the soft lips 
were put out for a kiss. No child was afraid of approach¬ 
ing Silas when Eppie was near him : there was no repul¬ 
sion around him now, either for young or old; for the 
little child had come to link him once more with the 
whole world. There was love between him and the child 
that blent them into one, and there was love between 
the child and the world — from men and women with 
parental looks and tones, to the red lady-birds and the 
round pebbles. 

Silas began now to think of Raveloe life entirely in 
relation to Eppie : she must have everything that was a 
good in Raveloe; and he listened docilely, that he might 
come to understand better what this life was, from which, 
for fifteen years, he had stood aloof as from a strange 
thing, wherewith he could have no communion: as some 
man who has a precious plant to which he would give a 
nurturing home in a new soil, thinks of the rain, and the 
sunshine, and all influences, in relation to his nursling, 
and asks industriously for all knowledge that will help 
him to satisfy the wants of the searching roots, or to 
guard leaf and bud from invading harm. The disposition 
to hoard had been utterly crushed at the very first by 
the loss of his long-stored gold : the coins he earned 
afterward seemed as irrelevant as stones brought to com¬ 
plete a house suddenly buried by an earthquake; the 
sense of bereavement was too heavy upon him for the old 
thrill of satisfaction to rise again at the touch of the 
newly earned coin. And now something had come to 
replace his hoard which gave a growing purpose to the 


190 


SILAS MARNER. 


earnings, drawing his hope and joy continually onward 
beyond the money. 

In old days there were angels who came and took men 
by the hand and led them away from the city of destruc¬ 
tion. We see no white-winged angels now. But yet 
men are led away from threatening destruction : a hand 
is put into theirs, which leads them forth gently towards 
a calm and bright land, so that they look no more back¬ 
ward ; and the hand may be a little child’s. 


J 


CHAPTER XV. 


There was one person, as you will believe, who 
watched with keener though more hidden interest than 
any other, the prosperous growth of Eppie under the 
weaver’s care. He dared not do anything that would 
imply a stronger interest in a poor man’s adopted child 
than could be expected from the kindliness of the young 
Squire, when a chance meeting suggested a little present 
to a simple old fellow whom others noticed with good¬ 
will ; but he told himself that the time would come when 
he might do something toward furthering the welfare 
of his daughter without incurring suspicion. Was he 
very uneasy in the meantime at his inability to give his 
daughter her birthright? I cannot say that he was. 
The child was being taken care of, and would very likely 
be happy, as people in humble stations often were — 
happier, perhaps, than those who are brought up in 
luxury. 

That famous ring that pricked its owner when he forgot 
duty and followed desire — I wonder if it pricked very 
hard when he set out on the chase, or whether it pricked 
but lightly then, and only pierced to the quick when the 
chase had long been ended, and hope, folding her wings, 
looked backward and became regret? 

Godfrey Cass’s cheek and eye were brighter than ever 
now. He was so undivided in his aims, that he seemed 
191 


ig2 


SILAS MARNER. 


like a man of firmness. No Dunsey had come back: 
people had made up their minds that he was gone for a 
soldier, or gone “ out of the country,” and no one cared 
to be specific in their inquiries on a subject delicate to a 
respectable family. Godfrey had ceased to see the shadow 
of Dunsey across his path ; and the path now lay straight 
forward to the accomplishment of his best, longest- 
cherished wishes. Everybody said Mr. Godfrey had 
taken the right turn; and it was pretty clear what would 
be the end of things, for there were not many days in 
the week that he was not seen riding to the Warrens. 
Godfrey himself, when he was asked jocosely if the day 
had been fixed, smiled with the pleasant consciousness 
of a lover who could say “ yes,” if he liked. He felt a 
reformed man, delivered from temptation; and the vision 
of his future life seemed to him as a promised land for 
which he had no cause to fight. He saw himself with all 
his happiness centred on his own hearth, while Nancy 
would smile on him as he played with the children. 

And that other child, not on the hearth — he would 
not forget it; he would see that it was well provided for. 
That was a father’s duty. 


PART IT. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

It was a bright autumn Sunday, sixteen years after 
Silas Marner had found his new treasure on the hearth. 
The bells of the old Raveloe church were ringing the 
cheerful peal which told that the morning service was 
ended; and out of the arched doorway in the tower 
came slowly, retarded by friendly greetings and ques¬ 
tions, the richer parishioners who had chosen this bright 
Sunday morning as eligible for church-going. It was the 
rural fashion of that time for the more important mem¬ 
bers of the congregation to depart first, while theii 
humbler neighbours waited and looked on, stroking their 
bent heads or dropping their curtsies to any large rate¬ 
payer who turned to notice them. 

Foremost among these advancing groups of well-clad 
people, there are some whom we shall recognize, in spite of 
Time, who has laid his hand on them all. The tall blond 
man of forty is not much changed in feature from the God¬ 
frey Cass of six-and-twenty: he is only fuller in flesh, and 
has only lost the indefinable look of youth — a loss which 
is marked even when the eye is undulled and the wrinkles 
are not yet come. Perhaps the pretty woman, not much 
younger than he, who is leaning on hi? arm, is more 
i93 


o 



194 


SILAS MARNER. 


changed than her husband : the lovely bloom that used 
to be always on her cheek now comes but fitfully, with 
the fresh morning air or with some strong surprise; yet 
to all who love human faces best for what they tell of 
human experience, Nancy’s beauty has a heightened 
interest. Often the soul is ripened into fuller goodness 
while age has spread an ugly film, so that mere glances 
can never divine the preciousness of the fruit. But the 
years have not been so cruel to Nancy. The firm yet 
placid mouth, the clear veracious glance of the brown 
eyes, speak now of a nature that has been tested and has 
kept its highest qualities; and even the costume, with 
its dainty neatness and purity, has more significance 
now the coquetries of youth can have nothing to do 
with it. 

Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey Cass (any higher title has died 
away from Raveloe lips since the old Squire was gathered 
to his fathers and his inheritance was divided) have turned 
round to look for the tall aged man and the plainly dressed 
woman who are a little behind — Nancy having observed 
that they must wait for “ father and Priscilla ” — and 
now they all turn into a narrower path leading across the 
churchyard to a small gate opposite the Red House. 
We will not follow them now; for may there not be some 
others in this departing congregation whom we should 
like to see again — some of those who are not likely to 
be handsomely clad, and whom we may not recognize so 
easily as the master and mistress of the Red House ? 

But it is impossible to mistake Silas Marner. His 
large brown eyes seem to have gathered a longer vision, 
as is the way with eyes that have been short-sighted in 


SILAS MARNER. 


*93 


early life, and they have a less vague, a more answering 
look; but in everything else one sees signs of a frame 
much enfeebled by the lapse of the sixteen years. The 
weaver’s bent shoulders and white hair give him al¬ 
most the look of advanced age, though he is not more 
than five-and-fifty; but there is the freshest blossom of 
youth close by his side — a blond dimpled girl of eigh¬ 
teen, who has vainly tried to chastise her curly auburn 
hair into smoothness under her brown bonnet; the hair 
ripples as obstinately as a brooklet under the March 
breeze, and the little ringlets burst away from the re¬ 
straining comb behind and show themselves below the 
bonnet-crown. Eppie cannot help being rather vexed 
about her hair, for there is no other girl in Raveloe who 
has hair at all like it, and she thinks hair ought to be 
smooth. She does not like to be blameworthy even in 
small things: you see how neatly her prayer-book is 
folded in her spotted handkerchief. 

That good-looking young fellow, in a new fustian suit, 
who walks behind her, is not quite sure upon the question 
of hair in the abstract, wlfen Eppie puts it to him, and 
thinks that perhaps straight hair is the best in general, 
but he doesn’t want Eppie’s hair to be different. She 
surely divines that there is some one behind her who 
is thinking about her very particularly, and mustering 
courage to come to her side as soon as they are out in 
the lane, else why should she look rather shy, and take 
care not to turn away her head from her father Silas, to 
whom she keeps murmuring little sentences as to who 
was at church, and who was not at church, and how pretty 
the red mountain-ash is over the Rectory wall? 


196 


SILAS MARNER. 


“ I wish we had a little garden, father, with double 
daisies in, like Mrs. Winthrop’s,” said Eppie, when they 
went out in the lane; “ only they say it ’ud take a deal 
of digging and bringing fresh soil — and you couldn’t do 
that, could you, father? Anyhow, I shouldn’t like you to 
do it, for it ’ud be too hard work for you.” 

“ Yes, I could do it, child, if you want a bit o’ garden: 
these long evenings, I could work at taking in a little bit 
o’ the waste, just enough for a root or two o’ flowers foi 
you; and again, i’ the morning, I could have a turn wi’ 
the spade before I sat down to the loom. Why didn’t 
you tell me before as you wanted a bit o’ garden ? ” 

“/can dig it for you, Master Marner,” said the young 
man in fustian, who was now by Eppie’s side, entering 
into the conversation without the trouble of formalities. 
“ It’ll be play to me after I’ve done my day’s work, or 
any odd bits o’ time when the work’s slack. And I’ll 
bring you some soil from Mr. Cass’s garden — he’ll let 
me, and willing.” 

“Eh, Aaron, my lad, are you there?” said Silas; “I 
wasn’t aware of you ; for whetf Eppie’s talking o’ things, 
I see nothing but what she’s a-saying. Well, if you could 
help me with the digging, we might get her a bit o’ 
garden all the sooner.” 

“ Then if you think well and good,” said Aaron, “ I’ll 
come to the Stone-pits this afternoon, and we’ll settle 
what land’s to be taken in, and I’ll get up an hour earlier 
i’ the morning, and begin on it.” 

“ But not if you don’t promise me not to work at the 
hard digging, father,” said Eppie. “ For I shouldn’t ha’ 
said anything about it” she added, half-bashfully, half* 


SILAS MARNER. 


197 

roguishly, “only Mrs. Winthrop said as Aaron ’ud be so 
good, and — ” 

“ And you might ha’ known it without mother telling 
you,” said Aaron. “And Master Marner knows too, I 
hope, as I’m able and willing to do a turn o’ work for 
him, and he won’t do me the unkindness to anyways take 
it out o’ my hands.” 

“There, now, father, you won’t work in it till it’s all 
easy,” said Eppie, “ and you and me can mark out the 
beds, and make holes and plant the roots. It’ll be a 
deal livelier at the Stone-pits when we’ve got some 
flowers, for I always think the flowers can see us and 
know what we’re talking about. And I’ll have a bit o’ 
rosemary, and bergamot, and thyme, because they’re so 
sweet-smelling; but there’s no lavender only in the gen¬ 
tlefolk’s gardens, I think.” 

“That’s no reason why you shouldn’t have some,” 
said Aaron, “ for I can bring you slips of anything; I’m 
forced to cut no end of ’em when I’m gardening, and 
throw ’em away mostly. There’s a big bed o’ lavender at 
the Red House, the missis is very fond of it.” 

“Well,” said Silas, gravely, “so as you don’t make free 
for us, or ask for anything as is worth much at the Red 
House : for Mr. Cass’s been so good to us, and built us 
up the new end o’ the cottage, and given us beds and 
things, as I couldn’t abide to be imposin’ for garden- 
stuff or anything else.” 

“No, no, there’s no imposin’,” said Aaron; “there’s 
never a garden in all the parish but what there’s endless 
waste in it for want o’ somebody as could use everything 
up. It’s what I think to myself sometimes, as there need 


198 


SILAS MARNER. 


nobody run short o’ victuals if the land was made the 
most on, and there was never a morsel but what could 
find its way to a mouth. It sets one thinking o’ that — 
gardening does. But I must go back now, else mother 
’ull be in trouble as I aren’t there.” 

“ Bring her with you this afternoon, Aaron,” said Ep* 
pie; “ I shouldn’t like to fix about the garden, and her 
not know everything from the first—should you, father?” 

“ Ay, bring her if you can, Aaron,” said Silas; “ she’s 
sure to have a word to say as’ll help us to set things on 
their right end.” 

Aaron turned back up the village, while Silas and Ep- 
pie went on up the lonely sheltered lane. 

“ O, daddy ! ” she began, when they were in privacy, 
clasping and squeezing Silas’s arm, and skipping round to 
give him an energetic kiss. “ My little old daddy ! I’m 
so glad. I don’t think I shall want anything else when 
we’ve got a little garden; and I knew Aaron would dig it 
for us,” she went on with roguish triumph—“ I knew 
that very well.” 

“ You’re a deep little puss, you are,” said Silas, with 
the mild passive happiness of love crowned age in his 
face; “ but you’ll make yourself fine and beholden to 
Aaron.” 

“ Oh no, I shan’t,” said Eppie, laughing and frisking; 
“ he likes it.” 

“Come, come, let me carry your prayer-book, else 
you’ll be dropping it, jumping i’ that way.” 

Eppie was now aware that her behaviour was under 
observation, but it was only the observation of a friendly 
donkey, browsing with a log fastened to his foot —- a 


SILAS MARNER. 


m 

meek donkey, not scornfully critical of human trivialities, 
but thankful to share in them, if possible, by getting his 
nose scratched ; and Eppie did not fail to gratify him 
with her usual notice, though it was attended with the in¬ 
convenience of his following them, painfully, up to the 
very door of their home. 

But the sound of a sharp bark inside, as Eppie put the 
key in the door, modified the donkey’s views, and he 
limped away again without bidding. The sharp bark 
was the sign of an excited welcome that was awaiting 
them from a knowing brown terrier, who, after dancing at 
their legs in an hysterical manner, rushed with a worrying 
noise at a tortoise-shell kitten under the loom, and then 
rushed back with a sharp bark again, as much as to say, 
“ I have done my duty by this feeble creature, you per¬ 
ceive ; ” while the lady-mother of the kitten sat sunning 
her white bosom in the window, and looked round with 
a sleepy air of expecting caresses, though she was not 
going to take any trouble for them. 

The presence of this happy animal life was not the 
only change which had come over the interior of the 
stone cottage. There was no bed now in the living- 
room, and the small space was well filled with decent 
furniture, all bright and clean enough to satisfy Dolly 
Winthrop’s eye. The oaken table and three-cornered 
oaken chair were hardly what was likely to be seen in so 
poor a cottage; they had come, with the beds and other 
things, from the Red House; for Mr. Godfrey Cass, as 
every one said in the village, did very kindly by the 
weaver; and it was nothing but right a man should be 
looked on and helped by those who could afford it, when 


200 


SILAS MARNER. 


he had brought up an orphan child, and been father and 
mother to her >—and had lost his money too, so as he 
had nothing but what he worked for week by week, and 
when the weaving was going down too — for there was 
less and less flax spun—and Master Marner was none so 
young. Nobody was jealous of the weaver, for he was 
regarded as an exceptional person, whose claims on 
neighbourly help were not to be matched in Raveloe. 
Any superstition that remained concerning him had 
taken an entirely new colour; and Mr. Macey, now a 
very feeble old man of fourscore and six, never seen 
except in his chimney-corner or sitting in the sunshine 
at his door-sill, was of opinion that when a man had 
done what Silas had done by an orphan child, it was a 
sign that his money would come to light again, or least¬ 
wise that the robber would be made to answer for it — 
for, as Mr. Macey observed of himself, his faculties were 
as strong as ever. 

Silas sat down now and watched Eppie with a satisfied 
gaze as she spread the clean cloth, and set on it the 
potato-pie, warmed up slowly in a safe Sunday fashion, 
by being put into a dry pot over a slowly dying fire, as 
the best substitute for an oven. For Silas would not 
consent to have a grate and oven added to his con¬ 
veniences : he loved the old brick hearth as he had loved 
his brown pot — and was it not there when he had found 
Eppie ? The gods of the hearth 1 exist for us still; and let 
all new faith be tolerant of that fetishism, lest it bruise its 
own roots. 

1 Cf. the Lares and Penates, the domestic deities worshipped by the 
Romans. 


SILAS MARNER. 


201 


Silas ate his dinner more silently than usual, soon 
laying down his knife and fork, and watching half- 
abstractedly Eppie’s play with Snap and the cat, by which 
her own dining was made rather a lengthy business. 
Yet it was a sight that might well arrest wandering 
thoughts : Eppie, with the rippling radiance of her hair 
and the whiteness of her rounded chin and throat set off 
by the dark-blue cotton gown, laughing merrily as the 
kitten held on with her four claws to one shoulder, like a 
design for a jug-handle, while Snap on the right hand 
and Puss on the other put up their paws towards a mor¬ 
sel which she held out of the reach of both — Snap occa¬ 
sionally desisting in order to remonstrate with the cat by 
a cogent worrying growl on the greediness and futility of 
her conduct; till Eppie relented, caressed them both, 
and divided the morsel between them. 

But at last Eppie, glancing at the clock, checked the 
play, and said, “ O, daddy, you’re wanting to go into 
the sunshine to smoke your pipe. But I must clear away 
first, so as the house may be tidy when godmother comes. 
I’ll make haste — I won’t be long.” 

Silas had taken to smoking a pipe daily during the last 
two years, having been strongly urged to it by the sages 
of Raveloe, as a practice “ good for the fits ” ; and this 
advice was sanctioned by Dr. Kimble, on the ground that 
it was as well to try what could do no harm — a principle 
which was made to answer for a great deal of work in 
that gentleman’s medical practice. Silas did not highly 
enjoy smoking, and often wondered how his neighbours 
could be so fond of it; but a humble sort of acquiescence 
in what was held to be good, had become a strong habit 


202 


SILAS MARNER. 


of that new self which had been developed in him since 
he had found Eppie on his hearth: it had been the only 
clew his bewildered mind could hold by in cherishing 
this young life that had been sent to him out of the dark¬ 
ness into which his gold had departed. By seeking what 
was needful for Eppie, by sharing the effect that every¬ 
thing produced on her, he had himself come to appropri¬ 
ate the forms of custom and belief which were the mould 
of Raveloe life; and as, with reawakening sensibilities, 
memory also reawakened, he had begun to ponder over 
the elements of his old faith, and blend them with his 
new impressions, till he recovered a consciousness of unity 
between his past and present. The sense of presiding 
goodness and the human trust which come with all pure 
peace and joy, had given him a dim impression that there 
had been some error, some mistake, which had thrown 
that dark shadow over the days of his best years; and as 
it grew more and more easy to him to open his mind to 
Dolly Winthrop, he gradually communicated to her all 
he could describe of his early life. The communication 
was necessarily a slow and difficult process, for Silas’s 
meagre power of explanation was not aided by any readi¬ 
ness of interpretation in Dolly, whose narrow outward 
experience gave her no key to strange customs, and made 
every novelty a source of wonder that arrested them at 
every step of the narrative. It was only by fragments, 
and at intervals w T hich left Dolly time to revolve what she 
had heard till it acquired some familiarity for her, that 
Silas at last arrived at the climax of the sad story — the 
drawing of lots, and its false testimony concerning him ; 
and this had to be repeated in several interviews, undei 


SILAS MARNER. 


203 


new questions on her part as to the nature of this plan 
for detecting the guilty and clearing the innocent. 

“And yourn’s the same Bible, you’re sure o’ that, 
Master Marner — the Bible as you brought wi’ you from 
that country — it’s the same as what they’ve got at church, 
and what Eppie’s a-learning to read in?” 

“Yes,” said Silas, “every bit the same; and there’s 
drawing o’ lots in the Bible, mind you,” he added in a 
lower tone. 

“ Oh dear, dear,” said Dolly in a grieved voice, as if 
she were hearing an unfavourable report of a sick man’s 
case. She was silent for some minutes; at last she 
said — 

“There’s wise folks, happen, as know how it all is; 
the parson knows, I’ll be bound; but it takes big words 
to tell them things, and such as poor folks can’t make 
much out on. I can never rightly know the meaning o’ 
what I hear at church, only a bit here and there, but I 
know its good words — I do. But what lies upo’ your 
mind — it’s this, Master Marner: as, if Them above had 
done the right thing by you, They’d never ha’ let you be 
turned out for a wicked thief when you was innicent.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Silas, who had now come to understand 
Dolly’s phraseology, “ that was what fell on me like as if 
it had been red-hot iron; because, you see, there was 
nobody as cared for me or clave to me above nor below. 
And him as I’d gone out and in wi’ for ten year and 
more, since when we was lads and went halves — mine 
own familiar friend in whom I trusted, had lifted up his 
heel again’ me, and worked to ruin me.” 

“ Eh, but he was a bad un — I can’t think as there’s 


204 


SILAS MARNER. 


another such,” said Dolly. “ But I’m o’ercome, Master 
Marner ; I’m like as if I’d waked and didn’t know whether 
it was night or morning. I feel somehow as sure as I do 
when I’ve laid something up though I can’t justly put my 
hand on it, as there was a rights in what happened to 
you, if one could but make it out; and you’d no call to 
lose heart as you did. But we’ll talk on it again; for 
sometimes things come into my head when I’m leeching 
or poulticing, or such, as I could never think on when I 
was sitting still.” 

Dolly was too useful a woman not to have many 
opportunities of illumination of the kind she alluded 
to, and she was not long before she recurred to the 
subject. 

“ Master Marner,” she said, one day that she came to 
bring home Eppie’s washing, “ I’ve been sore puzzled for 
a good bit wi’ that trouble o’ yourn and the drawing o’ 
lots; and it got twisted back’ards and for’ards, as I 
didn’t know which end to lay hold on. But it come to 
me all clear like, that night when I was sitting up wi’ 
poor Bessy Fawkes, as is dead and left her children 
behind, God help ’em — it come to me as clear as day¬ 
light : but whether I’ve got hold on it now, or can any¬ 
ways bring it to my tongue’s end, that I don’t know. 
For I’ve often a deal inside me as ’ll niver come out; 
and for what you talk o’ your folks in your old country 
niver saying prayers by heart nor saying ’em out of a 
book, they must be wonderful diver; for if I didn’t 
know 1 Our Father,’ and little bits o’ good words as I 
can carry out o’ church wi’ me, I might down o’ my 
knees every night, but nothing could I say.” 


SILAS MARNER. 


205 


“ But you can mostly say something as I can make 
sense on, Mrs. Winthrop,” said Silas. 

“Well, then, Master Marner, it come to me summat 
like this: I can make nothing o’ the drawing o’ lots and 
the answer coming wrong; it ’ud mayhap take the parson 
to tell that, and he could only tell us i’ big words. But 
what come to me as clear as the daylight, it was when 
I was troubling over poor Bessy Fawkes, and it allays 
comes into my head when I’m sorry for folks, and feel 
as I can’t do a power to help ’em, not if I was to get up 
i’ the middle o’ the night — it comes into my head as 
Them above has got a deal tenderer heart nor what I’ve 
got — for I can’t be anyways better nor Them as made 
me; and if anything looks hard to me, it’s because 
there’s things I don’t know on; and for the matter o’ 
that, there may be plenty o’ things I don’t know on, for 
it’s little as I know — that it is. And so, while I was 
thinking o’ that, you come into my mind, Master Marner, 
and it all come pouring in : — if I felt i’ my inside what 
was the right and just thing by you, and them as prayed 
and drawed the lots, all but that wicked un, if they'd ha’ 
done the right thing by you if they could, isn’t there 
Them as was at the making on us, and knows better and 
has a better will ? And that’s all as ever I can be sure 
on, and everything else is a big puzzle to me when I 
think on it. For there was the fever come and took off 
them as were full-growed, and left the helpless children; 
and there’s the breaking o’ limbs; and them as ’ud do 
right and be sober have to suffer by them as are contrairy 
— eh, there’s trouble i’ this world, and there’s things as 
we can niver make out the rights on. And all as we’ve 


206 


SILAS MARNER. 


got to do is to trusten, Master Marner — to do the right 
thing as fur as we know, and to trusten. For if us as 
knows so little can see a bit o’ good and rights, we may 
be sure as there’s a good and a rights bigger nor what we 
can know — I feel it i’ my own inside as it must be so. 
And if you could but ha’ gone on trustening, Master 
Marner, you wouldn’t ha’ run away from your fellow- 
creaturs and been so lone.” 

“Ah, but that ’ud ha’ been hard,” said Silas, in an 
undertone; “ it ’ud ha’ been hard to trusten then.” 

“ And so it would,” said Dolly, almost with compunc¬ 
tion; “them things are easier said nor done; and I’m 
partly ashamed o’ talking.” 

“Nay, nay,” said Silas, “you’re i’ the right, Mrs. 
Winthrop — you’re i’ the right. There’s good i’ this 
world — I’ve a feeling o’ that now; and it makes a man 
feel as there’s a good more nor he can see, i’ spite o’ the 
trouble and the wickedness. That drawing o’ the lots is 
dark; but the child was sent to me: there’s dealings 
with us — there’s dealings.” 

This dialogue took place in Eppie’s earlier years, when 
Silas had to part with her for two hours every day, that 
she might learn to read at the dame school, after he had 
vainly tried himself to guide her in that first step to learn¬ 
ing. Now that she was grown up, Silas had often been 
led, in those moments of quiet outpouring which come 
to people who live together in perfect love, to talk with 
her too of the past, and how and why he had lived 
a lonely man until she had been sent to him. For 
it would have been impossible for him to hide from 
Eppie that she was not his own child: even if the most 


SILAS MARNER. 


207 


delicate reticence on the point could have been expected 
from Raveloe gossips in her presence, her own questions 
about her mother could not have been parried, as she 
grew up, without that complete shrouding of the past 
which would have made a painful barrier between their 
minds. So Eppie had long known how her mother had 
died on the snowy ground, and how she herself had been 
found on the hearth by father Silas, who had taken her 
golden curls for his lost guineas brought back to him. 
The tender and peculiar love with which Silas bad reared 
her in almost inseparable companionship with himself, 
aided by the seclusion of their dwelling, had preserved 
her from the lowering influences of the village talk and 
habits, and had kept her mind in that freshness which is 
sometimes falsely supposed to be an invariable attribute 
of rusticity. Perfect love has a breath of poetry which 
can exalt the relations of the least-instructed human 
beings ; and this breath of poetry had surrounded Eppie 
from the time when she had followed the bright gleam 
that beckoned her to Silas’s hearth; so that it is not 
surprising if, in other things besides her delicate pretti¬ 
ness, she was not quite a common village maiden, but had 
a touch of refinement and fervour which came from no 
other teaching than that of tenderly nurtured unvitiated 
feeling. She was too childish and simple for her imagi¬ 
nation to rove into questions about her unknown father ; 
for a long while it did not even occur to her that she 
must have had a father; and the first time that the idea 
of her mother having had a husband presented itself to 
her, was when Silas showed her the wedding-ring which 
had been taken from the wasted finger, and had been 


208 


SILAS MARNER. 


carefully preserved by him in a little lackered box 
shaped like a shoe. He delivered this box into Eppie’s 
charge when she had grown up, and she often opened it 
to look at the ring: but still she thought hardly at all 
about the father of whom it was the symbol. Had she 
not a father very close to her, who loved her better than 
any real fathers in the village seemed to love their 
daughters ? On the contrary, who her mother was, and 
how she came to die in that forlornness, were questions 
that often pressed on Eppie’s mind. Her knowledge of 
Mrs. Winthrop, who was her nearest friend next to Silas, 
made her feel that her mother must be very precious; and 
she had again and again asked Silas to tell her how hei 
mother looked, whom she was like, and how he had found 
her against the furze-bush, led towards it by the little foot¬ 
steps and the outstretched arms. The furze-bush was 
there still; and this afternoon, when Eppie came out 
with Silas into the sunshine, it was the first object that 
arrested her eyes and thoughts. 

“ Father,” she said, in a tone of gentle gravity, which 
sometimes came like a sadder, slower cadence across her 
playfulness, “ we shall take the furze-bush into the gar¬ 
den ; it’ll come into the corner, and just against it I’ll 
put snowdrops and crocuses, ’cause Aaron says they won’t 
die out, but’ll always get more and more.” 

“ Ah, child,” said Silas, always ready to talk when he 
had his pipe in his hand, apparently enjoying the pauses 
more than the puffs, “it wouldn’t do to leave out the 
furze-bush; and there’s nothing prettier, to my thinking, 
when it’s yallow with flowers. But it’s just come into my 
head what we’re to do for a fence — mayhap Aaron can 


SILAS MARNER. 


209 


help us to a chought ; but a fence we must have, else 
the donkeys and things ’ull come and trample everything 
down. And fencing’s hard to be got at, by what I can 
make out.” 

“ O, I’ll tell you, daddy,” said Eppie, clasping her 
hands suddenly, after a minute’s thought. “ There’s lots 
o’ loose stones about, some of ’em not big, and we might 
lay ’em atop of one another, and make a wall. You and 
me could carry the smallest, and Aaron ’ud carry the 
rest — I know he would.” 

“ Eh, my precious ’un,” said Silas, “ there isn’t enough 
stones to go all round ; and as for you carrying, why, wi’ 
your little arms you couldn’t carry a stone no bigger 
than a turnip. You’re dillicate made, my dear,” he 
added, with a tender intonation — “that’s what Mrs. 
Winthrop says.” 

“ O, I’m stronger than you think, daddy,” said Eppie ; 

and if there wasn’t stones enough to go all round, why 
they’ll go part o’ the way, and then it’ll be easier to get 
sticks and things for the rest. See here, round the big 
pit, what a many stones ! ” 

She skipped forward to the pit, meaning to lift one of 
the stones and exhibit her strength, but she started back 
in surprise. 

“O, father, just come and look here,” she exclaimed 
•— “ come and see how the water’s gone down since yes¬ 
terday. Why, yesterday the pit was ever so full! ” 

<s Well, to be sure,” said Silas, coming to her side, 
“ Why, that’s the draining they’ve begun on, since harvest 
i’ Mr. Osgood’s fields, I reckon. The foreman said to 
me the other day, when I passed by ’em, ‘ Master Marner,' 
p 


210 


SILAS MARNER. 


he said, ‘ I shouldn’t wonder if we lay your bit o’ waste as 
dry as a bone.’ It was Mr. Godfrey Cass, he said, had 
gone into the draining: he’d been taking these fields o’ 
Mr. Osgood.” 

“ How odd it’ll seem to have the old pit dried up ! ” 
said Eppie, turning away, and stooping to lift rather a 
large stone. “See, daddy, I can carry this quite well,” 
she said, going along with much energy for a few steps, 
but presently letting it fall. 

“ Ah, you’re fine and strong, aren’t you ? ” said Silas, 
while Eppie shook her aching arms and laughed. 
“ Come, come, let us go and sit down on the bank against 
the stile there, and have no more lifting. You might 
hurt yourself, child. You’d need have somebody to 
work for you—and my arm isn’t over strong.” 

Silas uttered the last sentence slowly, as if it implied 
more than met the ear; and Eppie, when they sat down 
on the bank, nestled close to his side, and, taking hold 
caressingly of the arm that was not over strong, held it 
on her lap, while Silas puffed again dutifully at the pipe, 
which occupied his other arm. An ash in the hedgerow 
behind made a fretted screen from the sun, and threw 
happy playful shadows all about them. 

“ Father,” said Eppie, very gently, after they had been 
sitting in silence a little while, “ if I was to be married, 
ought I to be married with my mother’s ring?” 

Silas gave an almost imperceptible start, though the 
question fell in with the under-current of thought in his 
own mind, and then said, in a subdued tone, “ Why, 
Eppie, have you been a-thinking on it?” 

“ Only this last week, father,” said Eppie, ingenuously, 
“ since Aaron talked to me about it.” 


SILAS MARNER. 


211 


“ And what did he say?” said Silas, still in the same 
subdued way, as if he were anxious lest he should fall 
into the slightest tone that was not for Eppie’s good. 

“ He said he should like to be married, because he 
was a-going in four-and-twenty, and had got a deal of 
gardening work, now Mr. Mott’s given up; and he goes 
twice a-week regular to Mr. Cass’s and once to Mr. 
Osgood’s, and they’re going to take him on at the Rec¬ 
tory.” 

“And who is it as he’s wanting to marry?” said Silas, 
with rather a sad smile. 

“ Why, me, to be sure, daddy,” said Eppie, with dim¬ 
pling laughter, kissing her father’s cheek; “ as if he’d 
want to marry anybody else ! ” 

“ And you mean to have him, do you ? ” said Silas. 

“ Yes, some time,” said Eppie, “ I don’t know when. 
Everybody’s married some time, Aaron says. But I told 
him that wasn’t true; for, I said, look at father — he’s 
never been married.” 

“ No, child,” said Silas, “ your father was a lone man 
till you was sent to him.” 

“But you’ll never be lone again, father,” said Eppie, 
tenderly. “That was what Aaron said — ‘I could never 
think o’ taking you away from Master Marner, Eppie.’ 
And I said, ‘ It ’ud be no use if you did, Aaron.’ And 
he wants us all to live together, so as you needn’t work a 
bit, father, only what’s for your own pleasure; and he’d 
be as good as a son to you — that was what he said.” 

“And should you like that, Eppie?” said Silas,looking 
at her. 

“ I shouldn’t mind it, father,” said Eppie, quite simply. 


212 


SILAS MARNER. 


“ And I should like things to be so as you needn’t work 
much. But if it wasn’t for that, I’d sooner things didn’t 
change. I’m very happy: I like Aaron to be fond of 
me, and come and see us often, and behave pretty to you 
— he always does behave pretty to you, doesn’t he, 
father? ” 

“Yes, child, nobody could behave better,” said Silas, 
emphatically. “ He’s his mothers lad.” 

“ But I don’t want any change,” said Eppie. “ I 
should like to go on a long, long while, just as we are. 
Only Aaron does want a change : and he made me cry a 
bit — only a bit — because he said I didn’t care for him, 
for if I cared for him I should want us to be married, as 
he did.” 

“ Eh, my blessed child,” said Silas, laying down his 
pipe as if it were useless to pretend to smoke any longer, 
“you’re o’er young to be married. We’ll ask Mrs. 
Winthrop — we’ll ask Aaron’s mother what she thinks ; 
if there’s a right thing to do, she’ll come at it. But 
there’s this to be thought on, Eppie : things will change, 
whether we like it or no; things won’t go on for a long 
while just as they are and no difference. I shall get 
older and helplesser, and be a burden on you, belike, if 
I don’t go away from you altogether. Not as I mean 
you’d think me a burden — I know you wouldn’t — but 
it ’ud be hard upon you; and when I look for’ard to 
that, I like to think as you’d have somebody else besides 
me — somebody young and strong, as’ll outlast your own 
life, and take care on you to the end.” Silas paused, 
and, resting his wrists on his knees, lifted his hands up 
and down meditatively as he looked on the ground. 


SILAS MARNER. 


213 


“Then, would you like me to be married, father?” 
said Eppie, with a little trembling in her voice. 

“ I’ll not be the man to say no, Eppie,” said Silas, 
emphatically; “ but we’ll ask your godmother. She’ll 
wish the right thing by you and her son too.” 

“ There they come then,” said Eppie. “ Let us go 
Gnd meet ’em. O the pipe! won’t you have it lit 
again, father ? ” said Eppie, lifting that medicinal appli¬ 
ance from the ground. 

“ Nay, child,” said Silas, “ I’ve done enough for to-day. 
I think, mayhap, a little of it does me more good than so 
much at once.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 


While Silas and Eppie were seated on the bank dis 
coursing in the fleckered shade of the ash-tree, Miss 
Priscilla Lammeter was resisting her sister’s arguments, 
that it would be better to take tea at the Red House, 
and let her father have a long nap, than drive home to 
the Warrens so soon after dinner. The family party (of 
four only) were seated round the table in the dark wains¬ 
coted parlour, with the Sunday dessert before them, of 
fresh filberts, apples, knd pears, duly ornamented with 
leaves by Nancy’s own hand before the bells had rung 
for church. 

A great change has come over the dark wainscoted 
parlour since we saw it in Godfrey’s bachelor days, and 
under the wifeless reign of the old Squire. Now all is 
polish, on which no yesterday’s dust is ever allowed 
to rest, from the yard’s width of oaken boards round 
the carpet, to the old Squire’s gun and whips and 
walking-sticks, ranged on the stag’s antlers above the 
mantel-piece. All other sigps of sporting and out-door 
occupation Nancy has removed to another room; but 
she has brought into the Red House the habit of filial 
reverence, and preserves sacredly in a place of honour 
these relics of her husband’s departed father. The 
tankards are on the side-table still, but the bossed silver 
is undimmed by handling, and there are no dregs to send 
214 


SILAS MARNER. 


215 


forth unpleasant suggestions : the only prevailing scent is 
of the lavender and rose-leaves that fill the vases of 
Derbyshire spar. All is purity and order in this once 
dreary room, for, fifteen years ago, it was entered by a 
new presiding spirit. 

“ Now, father,” said Nancy, "is there any call for you 
to go home to tea? Mayn’t you just as well stay with 
us? — such a beautiful evening as it’s likely to be.” 

The old gentleman had been talking with Godfrey 
about the increasing poor-rate 1 and the ruinous times, 
and had not heard the dialogue between his daughters. 

" My dear, you must ask Priscilla,” he said, in the 
once firm voice, now become rather broken. “She 
manages me and the farm too.” 

“And reason good as I should manage you, father,” 
said Priscilla, “ else you’d be giving yourself your death 
with rheumatism. And as for the farm, if anything turns 
out wrong, as it can’t but do in these times, there’s noth¬ 
ing kills a man so soon as having nobody to find fault 
with but himself. It’s a deal the best way o’ being mas¬ 
ter, to let somebody else do the ordering, and keep the 
blaming in your own hands. It ’ud save many a man a 
stroke, I believe.” 

" Well, well, my dear,” said her father, with a quiet laugh, 
" I didn’t say you don’t manage for everybody’s good.” 

“ Then manage so as you may stay tea, Priscilla,” said 
Nancy, putting her hand on her sister’s arm affection¬ 
ately. “ Come now; and we’ll go round the garden while 
father has his nap.” 

1 A local tax assessed on rental values to provide for the relief of 
the poor. 


216 


SILAS MARNER. 


"My dear child, he’ll have a beautiful nap in the gig, 
for I shall drive. And as for staying tea, I can’t hear of 
it; for there’s this dairymaid, now she knows she’s to be 
married, turned Michaelmas , 1 she’d as lief pour the new 
milk into the pig-trough as into the pans. That’s the 
way with ’em all; it’s as if they thought the world ’ud 
be new-made because they’re to be married. So come 
and let me put my bonnet on, and there’ll be time for us 
to walk round the garden while the horse is being put in.” 

When the sisters were treading the neatly-swept gar¬ 
den walks, between the bright turf that contrasted 
pleasantly with the dark cones and arches and wall-like 
hedges of yew, Priscilla said — 

“ I’m as glad as anything at your husband’s making 
that exchange o’ land with cousin Osgood, and begin¬ 
ning the dairying. It’s a thousand pities you didn’t do 
it before ; for it’ll give you something to fill your mind. 
There’s nothing like a dairy if folks want a bit o’ worrit 
to make the days pass. For as for rubbing furniture, 
when you can once see your face in a table there’s noth¬ 
ing else to look for; but there’s always something fresh 
with the dairy; for even in the depths o’ winter there’s 
some pleasure in conquering the butter, and making it 
come whether or no. My dear,” added Priscilla, press¬ 
ing her sister’s hand affectionately as they walked side 
by side, “ you’ll never be low when you’ve got a dairy.” 

“Ah, Priscilla,” said Nancy, returning the pressure 
with a grateful glance of her clear eyes, “but it won’t 

1 A church festival iri honor of St. Michael, celebrated on September 
29. It is one of the days on which a Statute or “ Statty ” fair was held, 
when domestic servants were hired. 


SILAS MARNER. 


217 


make up to Godfrey: a dairy’s not so much to a man. 
And it’s only what he cares for that ever makes me low. 
I’m contented with the blessings we have, if he could be 
contented.” 

“ It drives me past patience,” said Priscilla, impetu¬ 
ously, “ that way o’ the men — always wanting and want¬ 
ing, and never easy with what they’ve got: they can’t sit 
comfortable in their chairs when they’ve neither ache nor 
pain, but either they must stick a pipe in their mouths, 
to make ’em better than well, or else they must be swal¬ 
lowing something strong, though they’re forced to make 
haste before the next meal comes in. But joyful be it 
spoken, our father was never that sort o’ man. And if 
it had pleased God to make you ugly, like me, so as the 
men wouldn’t ha’ run after you, we might have kept to 
our own family, and had nothing to do with folks as have 
got uneasy blood in their veins.” 

“ O don’t say so, Priscilla,” said Nancy, repenting 
that she had called forth this outburst; “ nobody has 
any occasion to find fault with Godfrey. It’s natural 
he should be disappointed at not having any children: 
every man likes to have somebody to work for and lay 
by for, and he always counted so on making a fuss with 
them when they were little. There’s many another 
man ’ud hanker more than he does. He’s the best of 
husbands.” 

“ O, I know ,’ 1 said Priscilla, smiling sarcastically, “ I 
know the way o’ wives; they set one on to abuse their 
husbands, and then they turn round on one and praise 
’em as if they wanted to sell ’em. But father’ll be wait¬ 
ing for me; we must turn now.” 


218 


SILAS MARNER. 


The large gig with the steady old grey was at the front 
door, and Mr. Lammeter was already on the stone steps, 
passing the time in recalling to Godfrey what very fine 
points Speckle had when his master used to ride him. 

“ I always would have a good horse, you know,” said 
the old gentleman, not liking that spirited time to be 
quite effaced from the memory of his juniors. 

“ Mind you bring Nancy to the Warrens before the 
week’s out, Mr. Cass, ,: was Priscilla’s parting injunction, 
as she took the reins, and shook them gently, by way of 
friendly incitement to Speckle. 

“ I shall just take a turn to the fields against the Stone- 
pits, Nancy, and look at the draining,” said Godfrey. 

“You’ll be in again by tea-time, dear?” 

“ Oh yes, I shall be back in an hour.” 

It was Godfrey’s custom on a Sunday afternoon to do 
a little contemplative farming in a leisurely walk. Nancy 
seldom accompanied him; for the women of her genera¬ 
tion — unless, like Priscilla, they took to outdoor manage¬ 
ment— were not given to much walking beyond their 
own house and garden, finding sufficient exercise in 
domestic duties. So, when Priscilla was not with her, she 
usually sat with Mant’s Bible 1 before her, and after follow¬ 
ing the text with her eyes for a little while, she would 
gradually permit them to wander as her thoughts had 
already insisted on wandering. 

But Nancy’s Sunday thoughts were rarely quite out of 


*A popular family Bible published at Oxford in 1814, containing 
explanatory and practical notes by Rev. Richard Mant, D.D., 
Bishop of Down and Connor. Horne says that the works of i6q 
authors were consulted in its preparation* 


SILAS MARNER. 


219 


keeping with the devout and reverential intention implied 
by the book spread open before her. She was not the¬ 
ologically instructed enough to discern very clearly the 
relation between the sacred documents of the past which 
she opened without method, and her own obscure, simple 
life ; but the spirit of rectitude, and the sense of responsi¬ 
bility for the effect of her conduct on others, which were 
strong elements in Nancy’s character, had made it a 
habit with her to scrutinise her past feelings and actions 
with self-questioning solicitude. Her mind not being 
courted by a great variety of subjects, she filled the 
vacant moments by living inwardly, again and again, 
through all her remembered experience, especially through 
the fifteen years of her married time, in which her life 
and its significance had been doubled. She recalled the 
small details, the words, tones, and looks, in the critical 
scenes which had opened a new epoch for her by giving 
her a deeper insight into the relations and trials of life, 
or which had called on her for some little effort of for¬ 
bearance, or of painful adherence to an imagined or real 
duty — asking herself continually whether she had been 
in any respect blamable. This excessive rumination 
and self-questioning is perhaps a morbid habit inevitable 
to a mind of much moral sensibility when shut out from 
its due share of outward activity and of practical claims 
on its affections — inevitable to a noble-hearted, childless 
woman, when her lot is narrow. “ I can do so little — 
have I done it all well?” is the perpetually recurring 
thought; and there are no voices calling her away from 
that soliloquy, no peremptory demands to divert energy 
from vain regret or superfluous scruple. 


120 SILAS MARNER. 

\ 

There was one main thread of painful experience in 
Nancy’s married life, and on it hung certain deeply-felt 
scenes, which were the oftenest revived in retrospect. 
The short dialogue with Priscilla in the garden had deter¬ 
mined the current of retrospect in that frequent direction 
this particular Sunday afternoon. The first wandering of 
her thought from the text, which she still attempted dutf 
fully to follow with her eyes and silent lips, was into an 
imaginary enlargement of the defence she had set up for 
her husband against Priscilla’s implied blame. The vin¬ 
dication of the loved object is the best balm affection can 
find for its wounds: — “A man must have so much on 
his mind,” is the belief by which a wife often supports a 
cheerful face under rough answers and unfeeling words. 
And Nancy’s deepest wounds had all come from the 
perception that the absence of children from their hearth 
was dwelt on in her husband’s mind as a privation to 
which he could not reconcile himself. 

Yet sweet Nancy might have been expected to feel 
still more keenly the denial of a blessing to which she 
had looked forward with all the varied expectations and 
preparations, solemn and prettily trivial, which fill the 
mind of a loving woman when she expects to be a mother. 
Was there not a drawer filled with the neat work of her 
hands, all unworn and untouched, just as she had arranged 
it there fourteen years ago — just, but for one little dress, 
which had been made the burial-dress? But under this 
immediate personal trial Nancy was so firmly unmurmur¬ 
ing, that years ago she had suddenly renounced the habit 
of visiting this drawer, lest she should in this way be 
cherishing a longing for what was not given. 


SILAS MARNER. 


221 


Perhaps it was this very severity towards any indul¬ 
gence of what she held to be sinful regret in herself, that 
made her shrink from applying her own standard to her 
husband. “It is very different — it is much worse 
for a man to be disappointed in that way: a woman 
can always be satisfied with devoting herself to her 
husband, but a man wanted something that would make 
him look forward more — and sitting by the fire is so 
much duller to him than to a woman.” And always, 
when Nancy reached this point in her meditations — try¬ 
ing, with predetermined sympathy, to see everything as 
Godfrey saw it — there came a renewal of self-question¬ 
ing. Had she done everything in her power to lighten 
Godfrey’s privation? Had she really been right in the 
resistance which had cost her so much pain six years ago, 
and again four years ago — the resistance to her hus¬ 
band’s wish that they should adopt a child? Adoption 
was more remote from the ideas and habits of that time 
than of our own; still Nancy had her opinion on it. It 
was as necessary to her mind to have an opinion on all 
topics, not exclusively masculine, that had come under 
her notice, as for her to have a precisely marked place 
for every article of her personal property ; and her opin¬ 
ions were always principles to be unwaveringly acted on. 
They were firm, not because of their basis, but because 
she held them with a tenacity inseparable from her men¬ 
tal action. On all the duties and proprieties of life, from 
filial behaviour to the arrangements of the evening ton 
let, pretty Nancy Lammeter, by the time she was three- 
and-twenty, had her unalterable little code, and had 
formed every one of her habits in strict accordance with 


222 


SILAS MARNER. 


that code. She carried these decided judgments within 
her in the most unobtrusive way : they rooted themselves 
in her mind, and grew there as quietly as grass. Years 
ago, we know, she insisted on dressing like Priscilla, 
because “it was right for sisters to dress alike,” and be¬ 
cause “ she would do what was right if she wore a gown 
dyed with cheese-colouring.” That was a trivial but 
typical instance of the mode in which Nancy’s life was 
regulated. 

It was one of those rigid principles, and no petty ego¬ 
istic feeling, which had been the ground of Nancy’s 
difficult resistance to her husband’s wish. To adopt a 
child, because children of your own had been denied 
you, was to try and choose your lot in spite of Provi¬ 
dence : the adopted child, she was convinced, would 
never turn out well, And would be a curse to those who 
had wilfully and rebelliously sought what it was clear that, 
for some high reason, they were better without. When 
you saw a thing was not meant to be, said Nancy, it was 
a bounden duty to leave off so much as wishing for it. 
And so far, perhaps, the wisest of men could scarcely 
make more than a verbal improvement in her principle. 
But the conditions under which she held it apparent that 
a thing was not meant to be, depended on a more pecul¬ 
iar mode of thinking. She would have given up making 
a purchase at a particular place if, on three successive 
times, rain, or some other cause of Heaven’s sending, 
had formed an obstacle; and she would have anticipated 
a broken limb or other heavy misfortune to any one who 
persisted in spite of such indications. 

“ But why should you think the child would turn out ill ? ” 


SILAS MARNER. 


223 


said Godfrey, in his remonstrances. “She has thriven 
as well as child can do with the weaver; and he adopted 
her. There isn’t such a pretty little girl anywhere else 
in the parish, or one fitter for the station we could give 
her. Where can be the likelihood of her being a curse 
to anybody ? ” 

“ Yes, my dear Godfrey,” said Nancy, who was sitting 
with her hands tightly clasped together, and with yearn¬ 
ing, regretful affection in her eyes. “ The child may not 
turn out ill with the weaver. But, then, he didn’t go to 
seek her, as we should be doing. It will be wrong: I feel 
sure it will. Don’t you remember what that lady we met 
at the Royston Baths told us about the child her sister 
adopted ? That was the only adopting I ever heard of: 
and the child was transported 1 when it was twenty- 
three. Dear Godfrey, don’t ask me to do what I know 
is wrong; I should never be happy again. I know it’s 
very hard for you — it’s easier for me — but it’s the will 
of Providence.” 

It might seem singular that Nancy — with her religious 
theory pieced together out of narrow social traditions, 
fragments of church doctrine imperfectly understood, and 
girlish reasonings on her small experience — should have 
arrived by herself at a way of thinking so nearly akin to 
that of many devout people whose beliefs are held in the 
shape of a system quite remote from her knowledge — 
singular, if we did not know that human beliefs, like all 
* other natural growths, elude the barriers of system. 

Godfrey had from the first specified Eppie, then about 
twelve years old, as a child suitable for them to adopt 

1 It was the custom to banish convicts to some remote colony. 


X24 


SILAS MARNER. 


It had never occurred to him that Silas would rather part 
with his life than with Eppie. Surely the weaver would 
wish the best to the child he had taken so much trouble 
with, and would be glad that such good fortune should 
happen to her: she would always be very grateful to him, 
and he would be well provided for to the end of his life 
— provided for as the excellent part he had done by the 
child deserved. Was it not an appropriate thing for peo¬ 
ple in a higher station to take a charge off the hands of a 
man in a lower ? It seemed an eminently appropriate thing 
to Godfrey, for reasons that were known only to himself; 
and by a common fallacy, he imagined the measure 
would be easy because he had private motives for desir¬ 
ing it. This was rather a coarse mode of estimating 
Silas’s relation to Eppie; but we must remember that 
many of the impressions which Godfrey was likely to 
gather concerning the labouring people around him would 
favour the idea that deep affections can hardly go along 
with callous palms and scant means; and he had not had 
the opportunity, even if he had had the power, of enter¬ 
ing intimately into all that was exceptional in the weaver’s 
experience. It was only the want of adequate knowledge 
that could have made it possible for Godfrey deliberately 
to entertain an unfeeling project; his natural kindness 
had outlived that blighting time of cruel wishes, and 
Nancy’s praise of him as a husband was not founded en¬ 
tirely on a wilful illusion. 

“I was right,” she said to herself, when she had re-' 
called all their scenes of discussion — “I feel I was right 
to say him nay, though it hurt me more than anything; 
but how good Godfrey has been about ite Many men 


SILAS MARNER. 


225 


would have been very angry with me for standing out 
against their wishes; and they might have thrown out 
that they’d had ill-luck in marrying me; but Godfrey has 
never been the man to say me an unkind word. It’s only 
what he can’t hide; everything seems so blank to him, I 
know; and the land — what a difference it ’ud make to 
him, when he goes to see after things, if he’d children 
growing up that he was doing it all for ! But I won’t 
murmur; and perhaps if he’d married a woman who’d 
have had children, she’d have vexed him in other ways.” 

This possibility was Nancy’s chief comfort; and to 
give it greater strength, she laboured to make it im¬ 
possible that any other wife should have had more per¬ 
fect tenderness. She had been forced to vex him by that 
one denial. Godfrey was not insensible to her loving 
effort, and did Nancy no injustice as to the motives of her 
obstinacy. It was impossible to have lived with her fif¬ 
teen years and not be aware that an unselfish clinging to 
the right, and a sincerity clear as the flower-born dew, 
were her main characteristics ; indeed, Godfrey felt this 
so strongly that his own more wavering nature, too averse 
to facing difficulty to be unvaryingly simple and truthful, 
was kept in a certain awe of this gentle wife who watched 
his looks with a yearning to obey them. It seemed to 
him impossible that he should ever confess to her the 
truth about Eppie; she would never recover from the re¬ 
pulsion the story of his earlier marriage would create, told 
to her now, after that long concealment. And the child, 
too, he thought, must become an object of repulsion: 
the very sight of her would be painful. The shock to 
Nancy’s mingled pride and ignorance of the world’s evil 
Q 


226 


SILAS MARNER. 


might be even too much for her delicate frame. Since he 
had married her with that secret on his heart, he must keep 
it there to the last. Whatever else he did, he could not 
make an irreparable breach between himself and this long' 
loved wife. 

Meanwhile, why could he not make up his mind to the 
absence of children from the hearth brightened by such 
a wife? Why did his mind fly uneasily to that void, as 
if it were the sole reason why life was not thoroughly 
joyous to him ? I suppose it is the way with all men and 
women who reach middle age without the clear per¬ 
ception that life never can be thoroughly joyous : under 
the vague dulness of the grey hours, dissatisfaction 
seeks a definite object, and finds it in the privation of 
an untried good. Dissatisfaction seated musingly on a 
childless hearth, thinks with envy of the father whose re¬ 
turn is greeted by young voices — seated at the meal 
where the little heads rise one above the other like nurs¬ 
ery plants, it sees a black care hovering behind every 
one of them, and thinks the impulses by which men 
abandon freedom, and seek for ties, are surely nothing 
but a brief madness. In Godfrey’s case there were 
further reasons why his thoughts should be continually 
solicited by this one point in his lot: his conscience, 
never thoroughly easy about Eppie, now gave his child¬ 
less home the aspect of a retribution; and as the time 
passed on, under Nancy’s refusal to adopt her, any re¬ 
trieval of his error became more and more difficult. 

On this Sunday afternoon it was already four years 
since there had been any allusion to the subject betweeu 
them, and Nancy supposed that it was forever buried. 


SILAS MARNER. 


227 


“ I wonder if he’ll mind it less or more as he gets 
older,” she thought; “ I’m afraid more. Aged people 
feel the miss of children; what would father do without 
Priscilla? And if I die, Godfrey will be very lonely — 
not holding together with his brothers much. But I won’t 
be over-anxious, and trying to make things out before¬ 
hand : I must do my best for the present.” 

With that last thought Nancy roused herself from her 
reverie and turned her eyes again towards the forsaken 
page. It had been forsaken longer than she imagined, 
for she was presently surprised by the appearance of the 
servant with the tea-things. It was, in fact, a little before 
the usual time for tea; but Jane had her reasons. 

“ Is your master come into the yard, Jane? ” 

“ No’m, he isn’t,” said Jane, with a slight emphasis, of 
which, however, her mistress took no notice. 

“ I don’t know whether you’ve seen ’em, ’m,” con¬ 
tinued Jane, after a pause, “but there’s folks making 
haste all one way, afore the front window. I doubt 
something’s happened. There’s niver a man to be seen 
i’ the yard, else I’d send and see. I’ve been up into the 
top attic, but there’s no seein’ anything for trees. I 
hope nobody’s hurt, that’s all.” 

“ O, no, I dare say there’s nothing much the matter,” 
said Nancy. “ It’s perhaps Mr. Snell’s bull got out again, 
as he did before.” 

“ I wish he mayn’t gore anybody then, that’s all,” 
said Jane, not altogether despising an hypothesis which 
covered a few imaginary calamities. 

“That girl is always terrifying me,” thought Nancy; 
“ I wish Godfrey would come in.” 


228 


SILAS MARNER. 


She went to the front window and looked as far as she 
could see along the road, with an uneasiness which she 
felt to be childish, for there, were now no such signs of 
excitement as Jane had spoken of, and Godfrey would 
not be likely to return by the village road, but by the 
fields. She continued to stand, however, looking at the 
placid churchyard with the long shadows of the grave¬ 
stones across the bright green hillocks, and at the glowing 
autumn colours of the Rectory trees beyond. Before 
such calm external beauty the presence of a vague fear is 
more distinctly felt — like a raven flapping its slow wing 
across the sunny air. Nancy wished more and more that 
Godfrey would come in. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


Some one opened the door at the other end of the 
room, and Nancy felt that it was her husband. She 
turned from the window with gladness in her eyes, for 
the wife’s chief dread was stilled. 

“ Dear, I’m so thankful you’re come,” she said, going 
towards him. “ I began to get-” % 

She paused abruptly, for Godfrey was laying down his 
hat with trembling hands, and turned towards her with 
a pale face and a strange unanswering glance, as if he saw 
her indeed, but saw her as part of a scene invisible to 
herself. She laid her hand on his arm, not daring to 
speak again; but he left the touch unnoticed, and threw 
himself into his chair. 

Jane was already at the door with the hissing urn. 
“Tell her to keep away, will you?” said Godfrey; and 
when the door was closed again he exerted himself to 
speak more distinctly. 

“ Sit down, Nancy — there,” he said, pointing to a chair 
opposite him. “ I came back as soon as I could, to 
hinder anybody’s telling you but me. I’ve had a great 
shock — but I care most about the shock it’ll be to 
you.” 

“ It isn’t father and Priscilla? ” said Nancy, with quiver¬ 
ing lips, clasping her hands together tightly on her lap. 

229 



230 


SILAS MARNER. 


“ No, it’s nobody living,” said Godfrey, unequal to the 
considerate skill with which he would have wished to 
make his revelation. “ It’s Dunstan — my brother Dun- 
stan, that we lost sight of sixteen years ago. We’ve 
found him — found his body — his skeleton .” 1 

The deep dread Godfrey’s look had created in Nancy 
made her feel these words a relief. She sat in compara¬ 
tive calmness to hear what else he had to tell. He 
went on: 

“The Stone-pit has gone dry suddenly — from the 
draining, I suppose; and there he lies — has lain for six¬ 
teen years, wedged between two great stones. There’s 
his watch and seals, and there’s my gold-handled hunting- 
whip, with my name on : he took it away without my 
knowing, the day he went hunting on Wildfire, the last 
time he was seen.” 

Godfrey paused; it was not so easy to say what came 
next. “ Do you think he drowned himself? ” said Nancy, 
almost wondering that her husband should be so deeply 
shaken by what had happened all those years ago to an 
unloved brother, of whom worse things had been augured. 

“ No* he fell in,” said Godfrey, m a low but distinct 
voice, as if he felt some deep meaning in the fact. Pres¬ 
ently he added : “ Dunstan was the man that robbed 
Silas Marner.” 

The blood rushed to Nancy’s face and neck at this sur¬ 
prise and shame, for she had been bred up to regard even 
a distant kinship with crime as a dishonour. 

“ O Godfrey ! ” she said, with compassion in her tone, 

1 The dramatic effect of the announcement of the discovery of Dun 
Stan’s skeleton by Godfrey is much finer than if made by any one else. 


SILAS MARKER. 


231 


for she had immediately reflected that the dishonour 
must be felt still more keenly by her husband. 

“ There was the money in the pit,” he continued — “ all 
he weaver’s money. Everything’s been gathered up, 
And they’re taking the skeleton to the Rainbow. But I 
came back to tell you : there was no hindering it; you 
must know.” 

He was silent, looking on the ground for two long 
minutes. Nancy would have said some words of comfort 
under this disgrace, but she refrained, from an instinctive 
sense that there was something behind — that Godfrey 
had something else to tell her. Presently he lifted his 
eyes to her face, and kept them fixed on her, as he 
said — 

“ Everything comes to light, Nancy, sooner or later. 
When God Almighty wills it, our secrets are found out. 
I’ve lived with a secret on my mind, but I’ll keep it from 
you no longer. I wouldn’t have you know it by some¬ 
body else, and not by me — I wouldn’t have you find it 
out after I’m dead. I’ll tell you now. It’s been ‘I will ’ 
and ‘ I won’t ’ with me all my life — I’ll make sure of my¬ 
self now.” 

Nancy’s utmost dread had returned. The eyes of the 
husband and wife met with awe in them, as at a crisis 
which suspended affection. 

“ Nancy,” said Godfrey, slowly, “ when I married you, 
I hid something from you — something I ought to have 
told you. That woman Marner found dead in the snow 
— Eppie’s mother — that wretched woman — was my 
wife : Eppie is my child.” 

He paused, dreading the effect of* his confession. But 


232 


SILAS MARNER. 


Nancy sat quite still, only that her eyes dropped and 
ceased to meet his. She was pale and quiet as a medita¬ 
tive statue, clasping her hands on her lap. 

“ You’ll never think the same of me again,” said God 
frey, after a little while, with some tremor in his voice. 

She was silent. 

“ I oughtn’t to have left the child unowned : I oughtn’t 
to have kept it from you. But I couldn’t bear to give 
you up, Nancy. I was led away into marrying her—I 
suffered for it.” 

Still Nancy was silent, looking down; and he almost 
expected that she would presently get up and say she 
would go to her father’s. How could she have any mercy 
for faults that must seem so black to her, with her simple, 
severe notions ? 

But at last she lifted up her eyes to his again and spoke. 
There was no indignation in her voice — only deep regret. 

“ Godfrey, if you had but told me this six years ago, we 
could have done some of our duty by the child. Do you 
think I’d have refused to take her in, if I’d known she 
was yours?” 

At that moment Godfrey felt all the bitterness of an 
error that was not simply futile, but had defeated its own 
end. He had not measured this wife with whom he had 
lived so long. But she spoke again, with more agitation. 

“And — O, Godfrey — if we’d had her from the first, 
if you’d taken to her as you ought, she’d have loved me 
for her mother — and you’d have been happier with me: 
I could better have bore my little baby dying, and our 
life might have been more like what we used to think it 
’ud be.” 


SILAS MARNER. 


233 


The tears fell, and Nancy ceased to speak. 

“ But you wouldn’t have married me then, Nancy, if 
I’d told you,” said Godfrey, urged, in the bitterness of 
his self-reproach, to prove to himself that his conduct had 
not been utter folly. “You may think you would now, 
but you wouldn’t then. With your pride and your 
father’s, you’d have hated having anything to do with me 
after the talk there’d have been.” 

“ I can’t say what I should have done about that, 
Godfrey. I should never have married anybody else. 
But I wasn’t worth doing wrong for — nothing is in the 
world. Nothing is so good as it seems beforehand — not 
even our marrying wasn’t, you see.” There was a faint 
sad smile on Nancy’s face as she said the last words. 

“ I’m a worse man than you thought I was, Nancy,” 
said Godfrey, rather tremulously. “ Can you forgive me 
ever ? ” 

“ The wrong to me is but little, Godfrey; you’ve made 
it up to me — you’ve been good to me for fifteen years. 
It’s another you did the wrong to; and I doubt it can 
never be all made up for.” 

“ But we can take Eppie now,” said Godfrey. “ I 
won’t mind the world knowing at last. I’ll be plain and 
open for the rest o’ my life.” 

“ It’ll be different coming to us, now she’s grown up,” 
said Nancy, shaking her head sadly. “But it’s your 
duty to acknowledge her and provide for her; and I’ll do 
my part by her, and pray to God Almighty to make her 
love me.” 

“Then we’ll go together to Silas Marner’s this very 
night, as soon as everything’s quiet at the Stone-pits.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 


Between eight and nine o’clock that evening, Eppie 
and Silas were seated alone in the cottage. After the 
great excitement the weaver had undergone from the 
events of the afternoon, he had felt a longing for this 
quietude, and had even begged Mrs. Winthrop and 
Aaron, who had naturally lingered behind every one else, 
to leave him alone with his child. The excitement had 
not passed away: it had only reached the stage when 
the keenness of the susceptibility makes external stimulus 
intolerable — when there is no sense of weariness, but 
rather an intensity of inward life, under which sleep is an 
impossibility. Any one who has watched such moments 
in other men remembers the brightness of the eyes and 
the strange definiteness that comes over coarse features 
from that transient influence. It is as if a new fineness 
of ear for all spiritual voices had sent wonder-working 
vibrations through the heavy mortal frame—as if “beauty 
born of murmuring sound ” had passed into the face of 
the listener. 

Silas’s face showed that sort of transfiguration, as he 
sat in his arm-chair and looked at Eppie. She had drawn 
her own chair towards his knees, and leaned . forward, 
holding both his hands, while she looked up at him. On 
the table near them, lit by a candle, lay the recovered 
gold — the old long-loved gold, ranged in orderly heaps, 
234 





EPPIE AND SILAS WERE SEATED ALONE 

































































































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♦ 




























SILAS MARNER. 


235 


as Silas used to range it in the days when it was his only 
joy. He had been telling her how he used to count it 
every night, and how his soul was utterly desolate till she 
was sent to him. 

“ At first, I’d a sort o’ feeling come across me now and 
then,” he was saying in a subdued tone, “ as if you might 
be changed into the gold again ; for sometimes, turn my 
head which way I would, I seemed to see the gold and 
I thought I should be glad if I could feel it, and find it 
was come back. But that didn’t last long. After a bit, 
I should have thought it was a curse come again, if ii had 
drove you from me, for I’d got to feel the need o’ your 
voice and the touch o’ your little fingers. You didn’t 
know then, Eppie, when you were such a little un — you 
didn’t know what your old father Silas felt for you.” 

“ But I know now, father,” said Eppie. “ If it hadn’t 
been for you, they’d have taken me to the workhouse, 
and there’d have been nobody to love me.” 

“Eh, my precious child, the blessing was mine. If 
you hadn’t been sent to save me, I should ha’ gone to 
the grave in my misery. The money was taken away 
from me in time ; and you see it’s been kept — kept till 
it was wanted for you. It’s wonderful — our life is 
wonderful.” 

Silas sat in silence a few minutes, looking at the money. 
“It takes no hold of me now,” he said, ponderingly — 
“ the money doesn’t. I wonder if it ever could again — 
I doubt it might, if I lost you, Eppie. I might come to 
think I was forsaken again, and lose the feeling that God 
was good to me.” 

At that moment there was a knocking at the door; and 


236 


SILAS MARNER. 


Eppie was obliged to rise without answering Silas. Beau¬ 
tiful she looked, with the tenderness of gathering tears 
in her eyes and a slight flush on her cheeks, as she 
stepped to open the door. The flush deepened when 
she saw Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey Cass. She made her little 
rustic curtsy, and held the door wide for them to enter. 

“We,’re disturbing you very late, my dear,” said Mrs. 
Cass, taking Eppie’s hand, and looking in her face with 
an expression of anxious interest and admiration. Nancy, 
herself was pale and tremulous. 

Eppie, after placing chairs for Mr. and Mrs. Cass, went 
to stand against Silas, opposite to them. 

“Well, Marner,” said Godfrey, trying to speak with 
perfect firmness, “ it’s a great comfort to me to see you 
with your money again, that you’ve been deprived of so 
many years. It was one of my family did you the wrong 
— the more grief to me — and I feel bound to make up 
to you for it in every way. Whatever I can do for you 
will be nothing but paying a debt, even if I looked no 
farther than the robbery. But there are other things I’m 
beholden — shall be beholden to you for, Marner.” 

Godfrey checked himself. It had been agreed be¬ 
tween him and his wife that the subject of his fatherhood 
should be approached very carefully, and that, if possible, 
the disclosure should be reserved for the future, so that 
it might be made to Eppie gradually. Nancy had urged 
this, because she felt strongly the painful light in which 
Eppie must inevitably see the relation between her father 
and mother. 

Silas, always ill at ease when he was being spoken to by 
“betters,” such as Mr. Cass — tall, powerful, florid men, 


SILAS MARNER. 


237 


seen chiefly on horseback — answered with some con¬ 
straint — 

“ Sir, I’ve a deal to thank you for a’ready. As for the 
robbery, I count it no loss to me. And if I did, you 
couldn’t help it; you aren’t answerable for it.” 

“ You may look at it in that way, Marner, but I never 
can; and I hope you’ll let me act according to my own 
feeling of what’s just. I know you’re easily contented; 
you’ve been a hard-working man all your life.” 

“ Yes, sir, yes,” said Marner, meditatively. “ I should 
ha’ been bad off without my work ; it was what I held by 
when everything else was gone from me.” 

“ Ah,” said Godfrey, applying Marner’s words simply 
to his bodily wants, “ it was a good trade for you in this 
country, because there’s been a great deal of linen-weav¬ 
ing to be done. But you’re getting rather past such close 
work, Marner: it’s time you laid by and had some rest. 
You look a good deal pulled down, though you’re not an 
old man, are you ? ” 

“ Fifty-five, as near as I can say, sir,” said Silas. 

“ O, why, you may live thirty years longer — look at 
old Macey ! And that money on the table, after all, 
is but little. It won’t go far either way—whether it’s 
put out to interest, or you were to live on it as long as 
it would last; it wouldn’t go far if you’d nobody to keep 
but yourself, and you’ve had two to keep for a good many 
years now.” 

“ Eh, sir,” said Silas, unaffected by anything Godfrey 
was saying, “ I’m in no fear o’ want. We shall do very 
well — Eppie and me ’ull do well enough. There’s few 
working folks have got so much laid by as that. I don’t 


SILAS MARNER. 


*38 

know what it is to gentlefolks, but I look upon it as a 
deal — almost too much. And as for us, it’s little we 
want.” 

“ Only the garden, father,” said Eppie, blushing up to 
the ears the moment after. 

“You love a garden, do you, my dear?” said Nancy, 
thinking that this turn in the point of view might help 
her husband. “ We should agree in that: I give a deal 
of time to the garden.” 

“ Ah, there’s plenty of gardening at the Red House,” 
said Godfrey, surprised at the difficulty he found in ap¬ 
proaching a proposition which had seemed so easy to him 
in the distance. “You’ve done a good part by Eppie, 
Marner, for sixteen years. It ’ud be a great comfort to you 
to see her well provided for, wouldn’t it? She looks 
blooming and healthy, but not fit for any hardships : she 
doesn’t look like a strapping girl come of working parents. 
You’d like to see her taken care of by those who can 
leave her well off, and make a lady of her; she’s more 
fit for it than for a rough life, such as she might come to 
have in a few years’ time.” 

A slight flush came over Marner’s face, and disap¬ 
peared, like a passing gleam. Eppie was simply won¬ 
dering Mr. Cass should talk so about things that seemed 
to have nothing to do with reality; but Silas was hurt 
and uneasy. 

“ I don’t take your meaning, sir,” he answered, not 
having words at command to express the mingled feel¬ 
ings with which he had heard Mr. Cass’s words. 

“Well, my meaning is this, Marner,” said Godfrey, 
determined to come to the point. “Mrs. Cass and I # 


SILAS MARNER. 


239 


you know, have no children — nobody to benefit by our 
good home and everything else we have — more than 
enough for ourselves. And we should like to have some¬ 
body in the place of a daughter to us — we should like 
to have Eppie, and treat her in every way as our own 
child. It would be a great comfort to you in your old 
age, I hope, to see her fortune made in that way, after 
you have been at the trouble of bringing her up so well. 
And it’s right you should have every reward for that. 
And Eppie, I’m sure, will always love you and be grate¬ 
ful to you : she’d come and see you very often, and we 
should all be on the look-out to do everything we could 
towards making you comfortable.” 

A plain man like Godfrey Cass, speaking under some 
embarrassment, necessarily blunders on words that are 
coarser than his intentions, and that are likely to fall 
gratingly on susceptible feelings. While he had been 
speaking, Eppie had quietly passed her arm behind 
Silas’s head, and let her hand rest against it caressingly; 
she felt him trembling violently. He was silent for some 
moments when Mr. Cass had ended — powerless under 
the conflict of emotions, all alike painful. Eppie’s heart 
was swelling at the sense that her father was in distress; 
and she was just going to lean down and speak to him, 
when one struggling dread at last gained the mastery 
over every other in Silas, and he said, faintly — 

“ Eppie, my child, speak. I won’t stand in your way. 
Thank Mr. and Mrs. Cass.” 

Eppie took her hand from her father’s head, and came 
forward a step. Her cheeks were flushed, but not with 
shyness this time : the sense that her father was in doubt 


*40 


SILAS MARNER. 


and suffering banished that sort of self-consciousness 
She dropped a low curtsy, first to Mrs. Cass and then to 
Mr. Cass, and said — 

“Thank you, ma’am — thank you, sir. But I can’t 
leave my father, nor own anybody nearer than him. 
And I don’t want to be a lady — thank you all the 
same” (here Eppie dropped another curtsy). “I 
couldn’t give up the folks I’ve been used to.” 

Eppie’s lip began to tremble a little at the last words. 
She retreated to her father’s chair again, and held him 
round the neck: while Silas, with a subdued sob, put up 
his hand to grasp hers. 

The tears were in Nancy’s eyes, but her sympathy with 
Eppie was, naturally, divided with distress on her hus¬ 
band’s account. She dared not speak, wondering what 
was going on in her husband’s mind. 

Godfrey felt an irritation inevitable to almost all of us 
when we encounter an unexpected obstacle. He had 
been full of his own penitence and resolution to retrieve 
his error as far as the time was left to him; he was pos¬ 
sessed with all-important feelings, that were to lead to a 
predetermined course of action which he had fixed on as 
the right, and he was not prepared to enter with lively 
appreciation into other people’s feelings counteracting 
his virtuous resolves. The agitation with which he spoke 
again was not quite unmixed with anger. 

" But I have a claim on you, Eppie — the strongest of 
all claims. It is my duty, Marner, to own Eppie as my 
child, and provide for her. She is my own child — her 
mother was my wife. I have a natural claim on her that 
must stand before every other.” 


SILAS MARNER. 


241 


Eppie had given a violent start, and turned quite pale. 
Silas, on the contrary, who had been relieved, by Eppie’s 
answer, from the dread lest his mind should be in oppo¬ 
sition to hers, felt the spirit of resistance in him set free, 
not without a touch of parental fierceness. “ Then, sir,” 
he answered, with an accent of bitterness that had been 
silent in him since the memorable day when his youthful 
hope had perished — “ then, sir, why didn’t you say so 
sixteen year ago, and claim her before I’d come to love 
her, i’stead o’ coming to take her from me now, when 
you might as well take the heart out o’ my body? God 
gave her to me because you turned your back upon her, 
and He looks upon her as mine : you’ve no right to her ! 
When a man turns a blessing from his door, it falls to 
them as take it in.” 

“ I know that, Marner. I was wrong. I’ve repented 
of my conduct in that matter,” said Godfrey, who could 
not help feeling the edge of Silas’s words. 

“ I’m glad to hear it, sir,” said Marner, with gathering 
excitement; “ but repentance doesn’t alter what’s been 
going on for sixteen year. Your coming now and saying 
‘ I’m her father ’ doesn’t alter the feelings inside us. It’s 
me she’s been calling her father ever since she could say 
the word.” 

“ But I think you might look at the thing more reason¬ 
ably, Marner,” said Godfrey, unexpectedly awed by the 
weaver’s direct truth-speaking. “ It isn’t as if she was to 
be taken quite away from you, so that you’d never see 
her again. She’ll be very near you, and come to see you 
Very often. She’ll feel just the same towards you.” 

“Just the same?” said Marner, more bitterly than 

R 


*42 


SILAS MARNER. 


ever. “ How'll she feel just the same for me as she does 
now, when we eat o’ the same bit, and drink o’ the same 
cup, and think o’ the same things from one day’s end to 
another? Just the same? that’s idle talk. You’d cut 
us i’ two.” 

Godfrey, unqualified by experience to discern the 
pregnancy of Marner’s simple words, felt rather angry 
again. It seemed to him that the weaver was very selfish 
(a judgment readily passed by those who have never 
tested their own power of sacrifice) to oppose what was 
undoubtedly for Eppie’s welfare; and he felt himself 
called upon, for her sake, to assert his authority. 

“ I should have thought, Marner,” he said, severely — 
" I should have thought your affection for Eppie would 
have made you rejoice in what was for her good, even if 
it did call upon you to give up something. You ought 
to remember your own life is uncertain, and that she’s 
at an age now when her lot may soon be fixed in a 
way very different from what it would be in her father’s 
home : she may marry some low working-man, and then 
whatever I might do for her, I couldn’t make her well- 
off. You’re putting yourself in the way of her welfare ; 
and though I’m sorry to hurt you after what you’ve done, 
and what I’ve left undone, I feel now it’s my duty to in¬ 
sist on taking care of my own daughter. I want to do 
my duty.” 

It would be difficult to say whether it were Silas or 
Eppie that was most deeply stirred by this last speech of 
Godfrey’s. Thought had been very busy in Eppie as she 
listened to the contest between her old long-loved father 
and this new unfamiliar father who had suddenly come 


SILAS MARNER. 


Mi 

to fill the place of that black featureless shadow which 
had held the ring and placed it on her mother’s finger. 
Her imagination had darted backward in conjectures, 
and forward in previsions, of what this revealed father¬ 
hood implied; and there were words in Godfrey’s last 
speech which helped to make the previsions especially 
definite. Not that these thoughts, either of past or fu¬ 
ture, determined her resolution — that was determined 
by the feelings which vibrated to every word Silas had 
uttered ; but they raised, even apart from these feelings, 
a repulsion towards the offered lot and the newly revealed 
father. 

Silas, on the other hand, was again stricken in con¬ 
science, and alarmed lest Godfrey’s accusation should be 
true — lest he should be raising his own will as an ob¬ 
stacle to Eppie’s good. For many moments he was mute, 
struggling for the self-conquest necessary to the uttering 
of the difficult words. They came out tremulously. 

“ I’ll say no more. Let it be as you will. Speak to 
the child. I’ll hinder nothing.” 

Even Nancy, with all the acute sensibility of her own 
affections, shared her husband’s view, that Marner was 
not justifiable in his wish to retain Eppie, after her real 
father had avowed himself. She felt that it was a very 
hard trial for the poor weaver, but her code allowed no 
question that a father by blood must have a claim above 
that of any foster father. Besides, Nancy, used all her 
life to plenteous circumstances and the privileges of “ re¬ 
spectability,” could not enter into the pleasures which 
early nurture and habit connect with all the little aims 
and efforts of the poor who are born poor; to her mind, 


*44 


SILAS MARNER. 


Eppie, in being restored to her birthright, was entering 
on a too long withheld but unquestionable good. Hence 
she heard Silas’s last words with relief, and thought, as 
Godfrey did, that their wish was achieved. 

“ Eppie, my dear,” said Godfrey, looking at his daugh¬ 
ter, not without some embarrassment, under the sense 
that she was old enough to judge him, “ it’ll always be 
our wish that you should show your love and gratitude to 
one who’s been a father to you so many years, and we 
shall want to help you to make him comfortable in every 
way. But we hope you’ll come to love us as well; and 
though I haven’t been what a father should ha’ been to 
you all these years, I wish to do the utmost in my power 
for you for the rest of my life, and provide for you as my 
only child. And you’ll have the best of mothers in my 
wife — that’ll be a blessing you haven’t known since you 
were old enough to know it.” 

“ My dear, you’ll be a treasure to me,” said Nancy, in 
her gentle voice. “ We shall want for nothing when we 
have our daughter.” 

Eppie did not come forward and curtsy, as she had 
done before. She had Silas’s hand in hers, and grasped 
it firmly — it was a weaver’s hand, with a palm and finger¬ 
tips that were sensitive to such pressure — while she 
spoke with colder decision than before. 

“ Thank you, ma’am — thank you, sir, for your offers 
— they’re very great, and far above my wish. For I 
should have no delight i’ life any more if I was forced to 
go away from my father, and knew he was sitting at home, 
a-thinking of me and feeling lone. We’ve been used to 
be happy together every day, and I can’t think o’ no 


SILAS MARNER. 


245 


happiness without him. And he says he’d nobody i’ the 
world till I was sent to him, and he’d have nothing when 
I was gone. And he’s took care of me and loved me 
from the first, and I’ll cleave to him as long as he 
lives, and nobody shall ever come between him and 
me.” 

“ But you must make sure, Eppie,” said Silas, in a low 
voice — “ you must make sure as you won’t ever be sorry, 
because you’ve made your choice to stay among poor 
folks, and with poor clothes and things, when you might 
ha’ had everything o’ the best.” 

His sensitiveness on this point had increased as he 
listened to Eppie’s words of faithful affection. 

“I shall never be sorry, father,” said Eppie. “I 
shouldn’t know what to think on or to wish for with fine 
things about me, as I haven’t been used to. And it ’ud 
be poor work for me to put on things, and ride in a gig, 
and sit in a place at church, as ’ud make them as I’m 
fond of think me unfitting company for ’em. What could 
/care for them?” 

Nancy looked at Godfrey with a pained questioning 
glance. But his eyes were fixed on the floor, where he 
was moving the end of his stick, as if he were pondering 
on something absently. She thought there was a word 
which might perhaps come better from her lips than 
from his. 

“What you say is natural, my dear child — it’s natural 
you should cling to those who’ve brought you up,” she 
said mildly; “but there’s a duty you owe to your lawful 
father. There’s perhaps something to be given up on 
more sides than one. When your father opens his home 


246 


SILAS MARNER. 


to you, I think it’s right you shouldn’t turn your back 
on it.” 

“I can’t feel as I’ve got any father but one,” said 
Eppie, impetuously, while the tears gathered. “ I’ve 
always thought of a little home where he’d sit i’ the 
corner, and I should fend and do everything for him : 
I can’t think o’ no other home. I wasn’t brought up to 
be a lady, and I can’t turn my mind to it. I like the 
working-folks, and their victuals, and their ways. And,” 
she ended passionately, while the tears fell, “ I’m promised 
to marry a working-man, as ’ll live with father, and help 
me to take care of him.” 

Godfrey looked up at Nancy with a flushed face and 
smarting, dilated eyes. This frustration of a purpose 
towards which he had set out under the exalted con¬ 
sciousness that he was about to compensate in some 
degree for the greatest demerit of his life, made him feel 
the air of the room stifling. 

“ Let us go,” he said, in an undertone. 

“ We won’t talk of this any longer now,” said Nancy, 
rising. " We’re your well-wishers, my dear — and yours 
too, Marner. We shall come and see you again. It’s 
getting late now.” 

In this way she covered her husband’s abrupt depart¬ 
ure, for Godfrey had gone straight to the door unable to 
say more. 


CHAPTER XX. 


Nancy and Godfrey walked home under the starlight 
in silence. When they entered the oaken parlour, Godfrey 
threw himself into his chair, while Nancy laid down her 
bonnet and shawl, and stood on the hearth near her hus¬ 
band, unwilling to leave him even for a few minutes, and 
yet fearing to utter any word lest it might jar on his feel¬ 
ing. At last Godfrey turned his head towards her, and 
their eyes met, dwelling in that meeting without any 
movement on either side. That quiet mutual gaze of a 
trusting husband and wife is like the first moment of rest 
or refuge from a great weariness or a great danger— not 
to be interfered with by speech or action which would 
distract the sensations from the fresh enjoyment of 
repose. 

But presently he put out his hand, and as Nancy placed 
hers within it, he drew her towards him, and said — 

“ That’s ended.” 

She bent to kiss him, and then said, as she stood by 
his side, “ Yes, I’m afraid we must give up the hope of 
having her for a daughter. It wouldn’t be right to want 
to force her to come to us against her will. We can’t 
alter her bringing up and what’s come of it.” 

“ No,” said Godfrey, with a keen decisiveness of tone, 
in contrast with his usually careless and unemphatic 

247 


248 


SILAS MARNER. 


speech — “ there’s debts we can’t pay like money debts, 
by paying extra for the years that have slipped by. While 
I’ve been putting off and putting off, the trees have been 
growing — it’s too late now. Marner was in the right in 
what he said about a man’s turning away a blessing from 
his door: it falls to somebody else. I wanted to pass 
for childless once, Nancy — I shall pass for childless now 
against my wish.” 

Nancy did not speak immediately, but after a little 
while she asked — “You won’t make it known, then, 
about Eppie’s being your daughter?” 

“No; where would be the good to anybody? — only 
harm. I must do what I can for her in the state of life 
she chooses. I must see who it is she’s thinking of 
marrying.” 

“ If it won’t do any good to make the thing known,” 
said Nancy, who thought she might now allow herself the 
relief of entertaining a feeling which she had tried to 
silence before, “ I should be very thankful for father and 
Priscilla never to be troubled with knowing what was in 
the past, more than about Dunsey: it can’t be helped, 
their knowing that.” 

“ I shall put it in my will — I think I shall put it in 
my will. I shouldn’t like to leave anything to be found 
out, like this about Dunsey,” said Godfrey, meditatively. 
“ But I can’t see anything but difficulties that ’ud come 
from telling it now. I must do what I can to make her 
happy in her own way. I’ve a notion,” he added, after a 
moment’s pause, “ it’s Aaron Winthrop she meant she was 
engaged to. I remember seeing him with her and 
Marner going away from church.” 


SILAS MARNER. 


249 


“ Well, he’s very sober and industrious,” said Nancy, 
trying to view the matter as cheerfully as possible. 

Godfrey fell into thoughtfulness again. Presently, he 
looked up at Nancy sorrowfully, and said — 

“ She’s a very pretty, nice girl, isn’t she, Nancy?” 

“Yes, dear; and with just your hair and eyes: 1 
wondered it had never struck me before.” 

“ I think she took a dislike to me at the thought of 
my being her father: I could see a change in her man¬ 
ner after that.” 

“ She couldn’t bear to think of not looking on Marner 
as her father,” said Nancy, not wishing to confirm her 
husband’s painful impression. 

“ She thinks I did wrong by her mother as well as by 
her. She thinks me worse than I am. But she must 
think it: she can never know all. It’s part of my punish¬ 
ment, Nancy, for my daughter to dislike me. I should 
never have got into that trouble if I’d been true to you 
— if I hadn’t been a fool. I’d no right to expect any¬ 
thing but evil could come of that marriage — and when 
I shirked doing a father’s part, too.” 

Nancy was silent; her spirit of rectitude would not let 
her try to soften the edge of what she felt to be a just 
compunction. He spoke again after a little while, but 
the tone was rather changed: there was tenderness 
mingled with the previous self-reproach. 

“And I got you, Nancy, in spite of all; and yet I’ve 
been grumbling and uneasy because I hadn’t something 
else — as if I deserved it.” 

“ You’ve never been wanting to me, Godfrey,” said 
Nancy, with quiet sincerity. “ My only trouble would be 


250 


SILAS MARNER. 


gone if you resigned yourself to the lot that’s been given 
us.” 

“Well, perhaps it isn’t too late to mend a bit there. 
Though it is too late to mend some things, say what they 
will.” 


) 



CHAPTER XXL 


The next morning, when Silas and Eppie were seated 
at their breakfast, he said to her— 

“ Eppie, there’s a thing I’ve had on my mind to do this 
two year, and now the money’s been brought back to us, 
we can do it. I’ve been turning it over and over in the 
night, and I think we’ll set out to-morrow, while the fine 
days last. We’ll leave the house and everything for 
your godmother to take care on, and we’ll make a little 
bundle o’ things and set out.” 

“Where to go, daddy?” said Eppie, in much surprise. 
“To my old country — to the town where I was born 
— up Lantern Yard. I want to see Mr. Paston, the 
minister: something may ha’ come out to make ’em 
know I was innicent o’ the robbery. And Mr. Paston 
was a man with a deal o’ light — I want to speak to him 
about the drawing o’ the lots. And I should like to talk 
to him about the religion o’ this country-side, for I partly 
thinfc: he doesn’t know on it.” 

Eppie was very joyful, for there was the prospect not 
only of wonder and delight at seeing a strange country, 
but also of coming back to tell Aaron all about it. Aaron 
was so much wiser than she was about most things — it 
would be rather pleasant to have this little advantage 
over him. Mrs. Winthrop, though possessed with a dim 
fear of dangers attendant on so long a journey, and re- 
2SI 


2 5 2 


SILAS MARNER. 


quiring many assurances that it would not take them out 
of the region of carriers* carts and slow waggons, was 
nevertheless well pleased that Silas should revisit his own 
country, and find out if he had been cleared from that 
false accusation. 

“ You’d be easier in your mind for the rest o’ your life, 
Master Marner,” said Dolly— “ that you would. And if 
there’s any light to be got up the yard as you talk on, 
we’ve need of it i’ this world, and I’d be glad on it my¬ 
self, if you could bring it back.” 

So on the fourth day from that time, Silas and Eppie, 
in their Sunday clothes, with a small bundle tied in a 
blue linen handkerchief, were making their way through 
the streets of a great fnanufacturing town. Silas, bewil¬ 
dered by the changes thirty years had brought over his 
native place, had stopped several persons in succession 
to ask them the name of this town, that he might be sure 
he was not under a mistake about it. 

“ Ask for Lantern Yard, father — ask this gentleman 
with the tassels on his shoulders a-standing at the shop 
door; he isn’t in a hurry like the rest,” said Eppie, in 
some distress at her father’s bewilderment, and ill at ease, 
besides, amidst the noise, the movement, and the multi 
tude of strange indifferent faces. 

“ Eh, my child, he won’t know anything about it,” said 
Silas; “ gentlefolks didn’t ever go up the Yard. But 
happen somebody can tell me which is the way to Prison 
Street, where the jail is. I know the way out o’ that as 
if I’d seen it yesterday.” 

With some difficulty, after many turnings and new in¬ 
quiries, they reached Prison Street; and the grim walls 


SILAS MARNER. 


253 


of the jail, the first object that answered to any image in 
Silas’s memory, cheered him with the certitude, which no 
assurance of the town’s name had hitherto given him, that 
he was in his native place. 

“ Ah,” he said, drawing a long breath, “ there’s the 
jail, Eppie; that’s just the same: I aren’t afraid now. 
It’s the third turning on the left hand from the jail doors 
— that’s the way we must go.” 

“ O, what a dark, ugly place ! ” said Eppie. “ How 
it hides the sky ! It’s worse than the Workhouse. I’m 
glad you don’t live in this town now, father. Is Lantern 
Yard like this street?” 

“My precious child,” said Silas, smiling, “it isn’t a 
big street like this* I never was easy i’ this street my¬ 
self, but I was fond o’ Lantern Yard. The shops here 
are all altered, I think — I can’t make ’em out; but I 
shall know the turning, because it’s the third. 

“ Here it is,” he said, in a tone of satisfaction, as they 
came to a narrow alley. “ And then we must go to the 
left again, and then straight for’ard for a bit, up Shoe 
Lane : and then we shall be at the entry next to the o’er- 
hanging window, where there’s the nick in the road for 
the water to run. Eh, I can see it all.” 

“ Oh, father, I’m like as if I was stifled,” said Eppie. 
“ I couldn’t ha’ thought as any folks lived i’ this way, so 
close together. How pretty the Stone-pits ’ull look when 
we get b?ck ! ” 

“It looks comical to me , child, now — and smells bad. 
I can’t think as it usened to smell so.” 

Here and there a sallow, begrimed face looked out 
from a gloomy doorway at the strangers, and increased 


254 


SILAS MARNER. 


Eppie’s uneasiness, so that it was a longed-for relief when 
they issued from the alleys into Shoe Lane, where there 
was a broader strip of sky. 

“ Dear heart! ” said Silas, " why, there’s people coming 
out o’ the Yard as if they’d been to chapel at this time o’ 
day — a weekday noon ! ” 

Suddenly he started and stood still with a look of dis¬ 
tressed amazement, that alarmed Eppie. They were 
before an opening in front of a large factory, from which 
men and women were streaming for their mid-day meal. 

“ Father,” said Eppie, clasping his arm, “ what’s the 
matter?” 

But she had to speak again and again before Silas could 
answer her. 

“ It’s gone, child,” he said, at last, in strong agitation 

— “ Lantern Yard’s gone. It must ha’ been here, 
because here’s the house with the o’erhanging window 

— I know that — it’s just the same; but they’ve made 
this new opening; and see that big factory! It’s all 
gone — chapel and all.” 

“ Come into that little brush-shop and sit down, father 

— they’ll let you sit down,” said Eppie, always on the 
watch lest one of her father’s strange attacks should come 
on. “ Perhaps the people can tell you all about it.” 

But neither from the brush-maker, who had come to 
Shoe Lane only ten years ago, when the factory was al¬ 
ready built, nor from any other source within his reach, 
could Silas learn anything of the old Lantern Yard 
friends, or of Mr. Paston, the minister. 

“ The old place is all swep’ away,” Silas said to Dolly 
IVinthrop on the night of his return — “the little grave- 


SILAS MARNER. 


255 


yard and everything. The old home’s gone ; I’ve no 
home but this now. I shall never know whether they 
got at the truth o’ the robbery, nor whether Mr. Paston 
could ha’ given me any light about the drawing o’ the 
lots. It’s dark to me, Mrs. Winthrop, that is; I doubt 
it’ll be dark to the last.” 

“ Well, yes, Master Marner,” said Dolly, who sat with 
a placid listening face, now bordered by grey hairs; “ I 
doubt it may. It’s the will o’ Them above as a many 
things should be dark to us; but there’s some things as 
I’ve never felt i’ the dark about, and they’re mostly what 
comes i’ the day’s work. You were hard done by that 
once, Master Marner, and it seems as you’ll never know 
the rights of it; but that doesn’t hinder there being a 
rights, Master Marner, for all it’s dark to you and me.” 

“No,” said Silas, “no; that doesn’t hinder. Since 
the time the child was sent to me, and I’ve come to love 
her as myself, I’ve had light enough to trusten by; and 
now she says she’ll never leave me, I think I shall trusten 
till I die/* 


CONCLUSION. 


There was one time of the year which was held in 
Raveloe tc be especially suitable for a wedding. It 
was when the great lilacs and laburnums in the old-fasE 
ioned gardens showed their golden and purple wealth 
above the lichen-tinted walls, and when there were calves 
still young enough to want bucketfuls of fragrant milk. 
People were not so busy then as they must become 
when the full cheese-making and the mowing had set 
in; and besides, it was a time when a light bridal dress 
could be worn with comfort and seen to advantage. 

Happily the sunshine fell more warmly than usual on 
the lilac tufts the morning that Eppie was married, for 
her dress was a very light one. She had often thought, 
though with a feeling of renunciation, that the perfection 
of a wedding dress would be a white cotton, with the 
tiniest pink sprig at wide intervals; so that when Mrs. 
Godfrey Cass begged to provide one, and asked Eppie 
to choose what it should be, previous meditation had 
enabled her to give a decided answer at once. 

Seen at a little distance as she walked across the 
churchyard and down the village, she seemed to be 
attired in pure white, and her hair looked like the dash 
of gold on a lily. One hand was on her husband’s arm, 
and with the other she clasped the hand of her father 
Silas. 


256 


SILAS MARNER. 


257 


“ You won’t be giving me away, father,” she had said 
before they went to church; “ you’ll only be taking Aaron 
to be a son to you.” 

Dolly Winthrop walked behind with her husband : and 
there ended the little bridal procession. 

There were many eyes to look at it, and Miss Priscilla 
Lammeter was glad that she and her father had happened 
to drive up to the door of the Red House just in time to 
see this pretty sight. They had come to keep Nancy 
company to-day, because Mr. Cass had had to go away 
to Lytherley, for special reasons. That seemed to be a 
pity, for otherwise he might have gone, as Mr. Cracken- 
thorp and Mr. Osgood certainly would, to look on at 
the wedding-feast which he had ordered at the Rainbow, 
naturally feeling a great interest in the weaver who had 
been wronged by one of his own family. 

“ I could ha’ wished Nancy had had the luck to find 
a child like that and bring her up,” said Priscilla to her 
father, as they sat in the gig; “ I should ha’ had some¬ 
thing young to think of then, besides the lambs and the 
calves.” 

“ Yes, my dear, yes,” said Mr. Lammeter; “ one feels 
that as one gets older. Things look dim to old folks: 
they’d need have some young eyes about ’em, to let ’em 
know the world’s the same as it used to be.” 

Nancy came out now to welcome her father and sis¬ 
ter ; and the wedding group had passed on beyond the 
Red House to the humbler part of the village. 

Dolly Winthrop was the first to divine that old Mr. 
Macey, who had been set in his arm-chair outside his 
own door, would expect some special notice as they 


* 5 S 


SILAS MARNER. 


passed, since he was too old to be at the wedding- 
feast. 

“Mr. Macey’s looking for a word from us,” said 
Dolly; “he’ll be hurt if we pass him and say nothing — 
and him so racked with rheumatiz.” 

So they turned aside to shake hands with the old man. 
He had looked forward to the occasion, and had his pre¬ 
meditated speech. 

“Well, Master Marner,” he said, in a voice that qua¬ 
vered a good deal, “ I’ve lived to see my words come 
true. I was the first to say there was no harm in you, 
though your looks might be again’ you; and I was the 
first to say you’d get your money back. And it’s noth¬ 
ing but rightful as ybu should. And I’d ha’ said the 
* Amens,’ and willing, at the holy matrimony; but 
Tookey’s done it a good while now, and I hope you’ll 
have none the worse luck.” 

In the open yard before the Rainbow the party of 
guests were already assembled, though it was still nearly 
an hour before the appointed feast-time. But by this 
means they could not only enjoy the slow advent of their 
pleasure; they had also ample leisure to talk of Silas 
Marner’s strange history, and arrive by due degrees at 
the conclusion that he had brought a blessing on himself 
by acting like a father to a lone motherless child. Even 
the farrier did not negative this sentiment; on the con¬ 
trary, he took it up as peculiarly his own, and invited 
any hardy person present to contradict him. But he met 
with no contradiction; and all differences among the 
company were merged in a general agreement with Mr. 
Snell’s sentiment, that when a man had deserved his 


SILAS MARNER. 


2 S 9 

good luck, it was the part of his neighbours to wish him 
joy. 

As the bridal group approached, a hearty cheer was 
raised in the Rainbow yard; and Ben Winthrop, whose 
jokes had retained their acceptable flavour, found it 
agreeable to turn in there and receive congratulations ; 
not requiring the proposed interval of quiet at the Stone- 
pits before joining the company. 

Eppie had a larger garden than she had ever expected 
there now; and in other ways there had been alterations 
at the expense of Mr. Cass, the landlord, to suit Silas’s 
larger family. For he and Eppie had declared that they 
would rather stay at the Stone-pits than go to any new 
home. The garden was fenced with stones on two sides, 
but in front there was an open fence, through which the 
flowers shone with answering gladness, as the four united 
people came within sight of them. 

“ O, father,” said Eppie, “ what a pretty home ours is [ 
I think nobody could be happier than we are.” 


THE END, 













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NOTES AND QUESTIONS ON 
SILAS MARNER 


CHAPTER I 

Page i. What customs and practices of the people place 
the story for us ? Why is this a better way to give time than 
to mention dates ? What inventions and customs would 
mark a story of our period ? 

1. Certain pallid, undersized men. Why are they men¬ 
tioned in the first paragraph ? Connect this with the subtitle 
of the story. 

2. How are the people of Raveloe revealed by their attitude 
toward Silas and all strangers ? 

3. Not far from the edge of a deserted stone-pit. Near 
Griff House, George Eliot's childhood home in Warwickshire, 
England, was a worked-out quarry. Memories of childhood 
abound in this author’s work. The first chapters of The 
Mill on the Floss may be called autobiographical. Do you 
see any reason for mentioning this deserted stone-pit ? 

3. Speak the devil fair enough, to treat him with respect. 
Mention some echoes in our own land of this old demon wor¬ 
ship. What conditions tended to make the minds of Raveloe 
people “ rude ” in the author’s sense of the word? 

4-5. Raveloe . . . lay in the rich central plain, meaning 
the Midlands of England, probably Warwickshire. Why 
does the author emphasize the remoteness of Raveloe ? What 
would an hour’s journey on horseback mean today? Try to 
draw a little map of Raveloe placing the principal buildings. 

6-7. What was the nature of Silas’s attack? Why does 
the author give Mr. Macey’s version of it ? 

8. Metamorphosis, change, transformation. This sen¬ 
tence about Marner’s inward life gives the key to George 
Eliot’s idea of character, as the growth or shrinking of a man’s 
soul. 

8. Narrow religious sect, one of the dissenting churches, 
so called because they dissented (differed) from the Established 
Church of England and separated from it. 

261 


262 


SILAS MARNER. 


8. Lantern Yard. This account of Marner’s life before 
coming to Raveloe is called “antecedent narrative,” on the 
screen a “ flash-back.” Why is it necessary for us to know 
in detail of Silas’s experience in Lantern Yard? 

8. Suspension of consciousness. As the story progresses, 
note the part that this affliction, catalepsy, plays in the plot 
and in our feeling toward Silas. 

io. David and Jonathan, i Samuel , xviii, i. The soul of 
Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved 
him as his own soul. 

10-14. In what ways are the characters of Marner and 
Dane in direct contrast ? 

14. Drawing lots. This method of detecting guilt has Old 
Testament sanction. Joshua, xviii, 6, Jonah, i, 7. The people 
of Lantern Yard thought that this plan took the responsi¬ 
bility from them and placed it on God. When the lots 
declared Marner guilty, he felt that God had forsaken him. 

15. I can do nothing but pray for you, Silas. The smug 
hypocrisy of this remark sums up Dane’s character better than 
paragraphs of descriptioh. 

16. If there is an angel, etc. This is the author’s protest 
against the injury wrought by wrong thinking and lack of 
reasoning in religious matters. 

16. What frailties in Marner’s nature prevented him from 
staying in Lantern Yard and proving his innocence? 

16. Getting into his loom and working away as usual. 
Work is his first refuge from himself. What place should 
work have in a man’s life ? In what other ways do people find 
forgetfulness from sorrow ? 

In this chapter note how Mamer’s life has fallen about him 
like a house of cards. Four foundation stones have been 
blasted away — his trust in friendship, the love of woman, the 
comfort of the church, and his sense of the presence of God. 

The author once wrote, “ I love words, they are the quoits, 
the bows, the staves that furnish the gymnasium of the mind. 
Without them our intellectual strength would have no imple¬ 
ments.” In each chapter look up the meaning of five words 
new to you, and note how the author uses them. 

CHAPTER II 

18. Fostering home of his religious emotions. Apt phras¬ 
ing to show the place of the church in Mamer’s life. Note the 
sympathetic description of the Dissenters’ Chapel. See also 
Adam Bede. 


NOTES AND LESSON HELPS. 263 

18. Recount the ways in which Raveloe was entirely differ¬ 
ent from Lantern Yard. 

20. To bridge over the loveless chasms of his life. Mean¬ 
ing of this metaphor ? 

20. No Unseen Love. Why does God seem farther away 
in Raveloe than in Lantern Yard? 

21. Account for Silas’s changed attitude toward money. 

22. What memories are stirred by the sight of Sally Oates ? 

23. Why did he cease his efforts to heal the sick? 

23. Transient sense of brotherhood. Suggest the course 
Silas should have taken in order to relieve his loneliness, but 
remember that a novelist must keep a character consistent. 

25. Cut off from faith and love. What channels have other 
men sought when their lives have been blocked? Mention 
ways you notice by which people seek to forget their troubles. 

26. Propped the ruin in its old place for a memorial. As 
a memorial of what? Why does the author consider this 
trifling incident worth telling ? 

28. Like a rivulet. Follow the thought in this simile. 
The author’s figures of speech are often drawn from observa¬ 
tion of nature, from animals, and insects. She loved the 
countryside. 

Note the last paragraph. It foreshadows a change. 
What suspensive element? 

CHAPTER III 

29. Squire Cass represents a new and contrasting set of 
characters, the gentry of Raveloe. What connection do you 
foresee between the last paragraph in Chapter II and the open¬ 
ing paragraph in Chapter III? 

31. Why does the author describe so fully the abundant 
hospitality of the Raveloe people ? 

31. Without the presence of wife and mother. What effect 
had this upon the home and family life ? How does this room 
reflect the character of the occupants ? 

31. Sons at home in idleness. An evidence of a neglectful, 
lax father, unwisely indulgent. How are the sons regarded in 
the community? 

32. Tankards, large vessels for ale; often of silver. 

32. Who was to come into the land some day. What old 
English law is suggested here? Is any cause of Dunstan’s 
dislike for Godfrey suggested ? 

32. What is the purpose of quoting the village gossip about 
these families who have not yet entered the story ? 


264 


SILAS MARNER. 


33. In the fifteenth year of Silas Marner’s life at Raveloe. 

Why this reference to Mamer in this description of Godfrey 
Cass? 

34-36. How does this stretch of dialogue between Godfrey 
and Dunstan start the plot moving and reveal their separate 
characters ? 

George Eliot was a master of dialogue. Her characters 
always speak to a purpose, although their remarks may seem 
casual and trivial. 

36. What is the effect of Dunstan’s sarcasm when he 
mentions Miss Nancy? 

36. You’ll be so very obliging to him. Meaning of this 
remark ? 

37. Name the two glaring defects in Godfrey’s char¬ 
acter. 

37. The results of confession were . . . certain. Explain 
Godfrey’s position in the light of his character as you know it, 
and his surroundings. George Eliot did not choose to portray 
perfect people. Why not ? 

41. An ugly story. This is sufficient reason in the author’s 
opinion for not giving all the details. We know all we need to 
know for the understanding of Godfrey’s character and his 
difficult position. George Eliot has the restraint of the Vic¬ 
torian period. 

44. The yoke a man creates for himself, etc. No excuse 
for his wrongdoing here. What good traits did he have which 
evil was fast undermining ? 


CHAPTER IV 

45. Ride to cover, the place where the hunt starts. 

45. What thought takes hold in Dunstan’s mind as he 
passes Marner’s cottage in the early morning ? 

47. How and when do you suppose that George Eliot 
learned about horse-dealing? What qualities of mind must 
a novelist have ? 

48. How is it in keeping with Dunstan’s character to take 
part in the hunt after he has sold the horse? What is the 
author’s purpose in Wildfire’s death ? 

49. Dunstan felt sure he could worry Godfrey into any¬ 
thing. Meaning ? 

49. Note the combination of reasons which makes Dunstan 
decide to walk home. What thought is uppermost in his 
mind? 


NOTES AND LESSON HELPS. 265 

50. It was Godfrey’s whip. Do you see any reason for 
mentioning this ? 

51. What part do mist and rain play in this part of the 
narrative? Weather often affects human destinies. Give 
examples in fiction, drama, and real life. 

53. Had slipped into the Stone-pit. He thinks Marner 
may have drowned. This starts what new idea in Dunstan’s 
mind? 

54. Note in this quick-moving chapter how the thought of 
borrowing Mamer’s money has developed into stealing it. 
George Eliot’s analysis of Dunstan’s character has, however, 
prepared us for this act. 

54. So he stepped forward into the darkness. A prophetic 
closing sentence. 


CHAPTER V 

55. George Eliot is concerned with the thoughts in the minds 
of her characters. She seeks in this way to explain their acts 
and to understand them. Why has’Marner gone away and left 
his door unlocked on this night ? How has he acquired a 
false sense of security? These two questions require expla¬ 
nation, and she reads his mind and nature for the answer. 
She finds it in the power of habit. 

55. Why was the influence of habit particularly strong in 
Marner’s life ? 

56. In what connection is Miss Priscilla Lammeter men¬ 
tioned? Is this purely accidental? A good farmer must 
prepare his ground. 

56. There were things Silas loved better than his own 
comfort. What were they ? 

57. Why does the author feel sorry for Marner, and how 
does she impart her feeling to us ? 

57. How has Silas become like his loom and his gold ? 

58- 59. Follow his search for the money ending with his cry 
of desolation and his return to the loom. When did he seek 
his loom before in order to forget ? 

59- 60. Why does he welcome the thought of a thief ? When 
was Jem Rodney mentioned before? What simile is,used to 
express Marner’s feeling ? 

61. The place of the inn in the social life of the village is 
suggested in this last paragraph and amplified in the next 
chapter. Marner has held aloof from this life. Why does he 
now seek this place of “ luxurious resort ” ? 


266 


SILAS MARNER. 


CHAPTER VI 

62. In this chapter at the Rainbow we have an intimate, 
friendly “ close-up ” of the Raveloe villagers. Narrow¬ 
minded, ignorant they may be, but the author does not scorn 
them nor hold them up to ridicule. The humor is sympa¬ 
thetic and kindly, but penetrating. She has known people of 
this type, and although amused by their simplicity, respects 
their innate goodness and appreciates fully that the limitations 
of their lives make them as they are. 

Why does she leave Silas to make us acquainted with this 
side of village life? How does the chapter contrast in 
mood? 

The Midland dialect is the medium of these heated argu¬ 
ments. It is also used in Adam Bede. For a discussion of 
this dialect, and its pronunciation, see Cross’s Life of George 
Eliot , Volume III, page 219. She says in part: “I was born 
and bred in Warwickshire, and heard the Leicestershire, North 
Staffordshire, and Derbyshire dialects during visits made in 
my childhood and youth.” 

What is gained by the use of dialect? If you were to put 
the arguments of this chapter into correct English, your 
question would be answered. But could you do this? The 
persistent question recurs, — How did a woman know how 
men at a village inn talked ? 

63. Durham, the county in Northern England from which 
the breed of cattle gets its name. 

64. Warrens, name of the Lammeter farm, so called be¬ 
cause small animal warrens were allowed there by royal grant. 
In England all farms and estates have names; a commend¬ 
able custom. 

64-66. How is each man at the inn described and character¬ 
ized so as to make an individual of him ? If you are interested 
in writing, this investigation will be invaluable. In the 
opinion of literary critics this Rainbow scene is unequaled even 
in Shakespeare. 

64. You’re both right and you’re both wrong, as I allays say. 

Who says this? Why is this attempt at conciliation good 
business ? 

63. Key-bugle. Carved bugle with six stops. Notice that 
these men were called by the names of the instrument they 
played, a form of metonymy. For description of village 
choirs of this period see The Sad Fortunes of Amos Barton , 
Chapter I, and Washington Irving’s “ Christmas Day ” in 
his Sketch-Book. 


NOTES AND LESSON HELPS. 


267 


66-75. From the standpoint of the author, this conversa¬ 
tion is not merely amusing, idle talk. It is more than charac¬ 
terization, too. What are the men telling us about Squire 
Cass, the Lammeters, Cliff’s Holiday, and—ghosts? 

CHAPTER VII 

77. How has the author created an atmosphere for the 
entrance of Silas? Why would his coming have made a stir 
under any circumstances ? 

77-80. If it was you stole my money, etc. Why doesn’t Silas 
directly accuse Jem? Again he says, “ I don’t accuse you — 
I won’t accuse anybody.” What stirring of old memories 
here ? Note too his apology — I was wrong. 

79. Explain paragraph at top of page. How were the 
villagers inclined to explain the robbery? 

81-82. The uncertainty about the proper substitute for a 
constable shows that the occasion is a novel one. This is like 
a discussion in “ The Three Strangers ” by Thomas Hardy. 

82. Oracular. Explain the derivation and meaning of the 
word. 

83. “Watch for the morning,”— Psalm , cxxx, 6, “My 
soul waiteth for the Lord, more than they that watch for the 
morning.” The Bible was a familiar book to the author. 

CHAPTER VIII 

84. Where have we heard before about Mrs. Osgood’s party ? 
Who wanted especially to go ? 

85-86. What theories are advanced about the robbery? 
If you have heard mysterious crimes discussed, this talk will 
sound natural. How would modern officers of the law have 
dealt with this affair more effectively ? 

86. Tinder-box. Used for producing a spark by friction 
before matches were invented. What kind of legal evidence 
is this ? 

89. What is uppermost in Godfrey’s mind at this time? 
What is the greatest concern of the villagers ? 

91. He [Godfrey] felt that the long-dreaded crisis in his life 
was close upon him. Meaning ? 

91. We shall hear of him again soon enough. His true 
feeling toward Dunstan. 

92. I was tortured into it. What is Godfrey’s train of 
thought when he says this ? 

93. Why are the Casses at first unconcerned about Dun¬ 
stan’s failure to return home ? 


268 


SILAS MARNER. 


93. The old Squire was an implacable man. What simile 
is used here? Yet how was he at the same time yielding and 
weak ? Perhaps George Eliot heard this type of landlord dis¬ 
cussed by her father, who was a land agent. 

94. What unpleasant consequences of confession did God¬ 
frey fear ? 


CHAPTER IX 

95. With a few strokes the author presents her character 
portrait of Squire Cass. We must understand him to help us 
in accounting for Godfrey, yes, and — Dunstan. 

95. Than with America or the stars. Why is this com¬ 
parison used ? 

95. Used to parish homage all his life. The social system 
of England has left its mark. The author thinks that our 
environment helps to make us. Where in the United States 
could you find men like Squire Cass, whose opinion of them¬ 
selves is “ undisturbed by comparison ” with those of higher 
position? Have you seeh such people? Give some examples. 

96. The sweet flower of courtesy is not a growth of such 
homes. Account for this difference in homes. Where do 
children learn courtesy ? 

96. Why is there such a gulf between father and son here ? 

97. Newspaper’s talking about peace. How does the 
Squire apply this to himself and his affairs ? 

98. Collogue with him, to plot with him. 

98. What conclusion does the Squire very quickly draw in 
spite of Godfrey’s many evasions ? 

101. Shilly-shally fellow ; you take after your poor mother. 
Recall the Squire’s lax, weak mouth and the undisciplined 
way in which he had brought up his sons. How is a man’s 
opinion of women an index to his character ? 

102. I should like to speak for myself, etc. What is the 
probable purpose of the father in proffering assistance to his 
son ? 

103. In this dialogue (96-103) between father and son, 
what is the subject to be settled? What is the essence and 
purpose of good dialogue, a narrative form in which the 
author excels ? 

103. In this point of trusting to some throw of fortune’s 
dice, Godfrey. George Eliot was an essayist before she 
became a novelist and frequently, as in this discussion of 
Chance, drops into the style of the didactic essayist, yet this 
paragraph is not a digression. It bears upon Godfrey’s 


NOTES AND LESSON HELPS. 269 

irresolute nature. Shall he confess or not? This tortures 
him. 

The author shows repeatedly that she has no desire to pre¬ 
sent irreproachable, faultless people. Why do people do the 
things they do, is her concern. What influences in their lives 
make or mar them? Unconsciously and gradually Godfrey 
is moving toward a future momentous decision in his life. 
Watch for it. 


CHAPTER X 

105. As readers we know more about this robbery than any 
of the people in the book. From what point of view is the 
story told? We may wonder why Dunstan is not suspected, 
but the author has explained this. The villagers thought of 
but one thing at a time, and the robbery had completely 
possessed their interests. It is natural for the mind to over¬ 
leap the close-at-hand and fix on some far-away object, in this 
case the peddler. Why is it necessary for the author to cover 
all this ? 

106-107. Is Mamer’s loss greater or less than that of any 
other “ lone man ” who loses his all by a bad investment or by 
going security on a note ? 

108- 109. Mamer’s grief is pathetic and distressing to wit¬ 
ness, but what beneficial side has it ? 

109. Black puddings, sausage. 

109- 112. What reasons did Mr. Crackenthorp and others 
give for advising Marner to go to church? What was the 
effect upon him? Why didn’t he follow their advice? 

in-112. What unconscious humor is there in Mr. Macey’s 
bungling attempts to comfort Silas ? 

113. Discuss the Raveloe idea of church going. How 
different from that of the Dissenters ? 

113. She [Dolly Winthrop] was a “comfortable woman.” 
Just what did this inclusive phrase mean? How is her 
industry pointed out ? Why does she go to see Silas ? 

114. Formerly, his heart had been as a locked casket. 
How does the author by. this simile make clear the change 
that has come into Mamer’s life ? 

115. Where was the first mention of little Aaron? This 
“ apple cheeked ” youngster is only one of George Eliot’s 
many delightful children. The little Poysers in Adam Bede 
and Milly’s children in The Sad Fortunes of Amos Barton are 
among the others. She loved children, as the creations of her 
mind show. 


270 


SILAS MARNER. 


116. I.H.S. These initials IHS form a monogram signifying 
the Greek word for Jesus but they popularly stand for the Latin, 
Jesus Hominum Salvator — Jesus, Savior of Men. I have 
suffered and In Hoc Signo are other interpretations of these 
initials with essentially the same meaning. 

118. Although all of Silas’s visitors recommended that he 
go to church, which one do you think the most truly Christian ? 
Why? 

120-121. How faithful to life is this picture of childhood? 

The rhythm of an industrious hammer, the singsong of 
children. 

122. Towards evening the snow began to fall. Another men¬ 
tion of weather. An author must prepare for coming events. 

123. Contrast Silas’s Christmas with that of the Raveloe 
villagers and. personages in the big houses. Why does she 
choose Christmas as a background day ? Why not the King’s 
Birthday or, if in America, the Fourth of July? 

125. Why is the New Year’s Ball of the Casses announced ? 

125. What form of figurative narrative is used in this 
dialogue between Godfrey and Anxiety? Something may 
happen to make things easier. The reasoning is true to 
Godfrey’s character, that “ something ” is coming nearer — 
don’t you feel it ? 

CHAPTER XI 

126. George Eliot like Jane Austen excels in describing the 
manners of country society. A vivid and truthful picture of 
a party such as the one in this chapter has an historical 
as well as an artistic value. A film version of Silas Marner 
would profit greatly by this detailed description of costume. 
No man could have written this chapter; and if George 
Eliot’s identity had not been known at the time of the publica¬ 
tion of Silas Marner , surely this chapter and other passages 
in the book would have revealed a woman as the author. 

127. What are the thoughts in Nancy’s mind as Godfrey 
comes to lift her down ? 

129. Again the author shows her penetration and under¬ 
standing by telling aloud to us the opinions that the guests 
have of one another. Thus we get acquainted with them. 
This is good craftsmanship on her part. 

129. Amiable primness. Said of whom? A tersely 
expressed character touch. 

131. And it was really a pleasure. In this paragraph 
descriptive of Nancy’s appearance and belongings, what do 
you glean of her nature? Don’t overlook the pins on the 


NOTES AND LESSON HELPS. 


271 


cushion. The author mentions Nancy’s work-marked hands, 
showing the traces of butter making. George.Eliot was proud 
that one of her hands was larger than the other, due, she said, 
to making and molding butter as a girl. 

132. Profane literature, not sacred. 

132. What essential attributes of a lady did Nancy have? 

132. How have our ideas about a girl’s and woman’s 
education changed since Nancy’s day ? 

133. Blowsy, ruddy as if made red by the wind. 

i 33- i 36. Why are these two sisters made so opposite in 

type ? What added light on Nancy’s character does Priscilla 
shed in her running remarks? Why does the author try to 
make sure that we understand Nancy? (These conversa¬ 
tional passages should be assigned and read as if in a play.) 

142. Give the young uns fair play. Squire Cass is carrying 
out his threat to help Godfrey. 

143-146. The scenes at the Rainbow and the Red House 
are large canvasses ; yet each person stands out — there is no 
blurring. Choose five of these people at the party and note 
one characteristic of each. This will help you to analyze the 
art of word protraiture. 

147. What is the purpose of the villagers’ conversation 
from the author’s point of view ? 

149. Before I said “ sniff,” etc. Note the quality of George 
Eliot’s humor. 

152. But she was not indifferent to him yet. Why does 
Godfrey think this ? 


CHAPTER XII 

153. Demon Opium. For the extensive use of opium in 
England in the early part of the nineteenth century, see 
De Quincey’s Confessions of an Opium Eater and Kingsley’s 
Alton Locke. 

154. Why did Molly choose this particular time for coming 
to the Red House? How does the knowledge that Godfrey 
has a child affect our opinion of him ? Why weren’t we told 
this fact before ? 

154. Note again the rapid characterization of Molly. As 
before, the story of the marriage is suggested and the pitiful 
details are omitted. A skillful story writer is selective. He 
cannot and should not tell everything. How does the author 
show some sympathy for Molly ? 

158. Invisible wand of catalepsy. When did this enter into 
the main plot of the story before ? 


272 


SILAS MARNER. 


158. What effect is gained by Silas’s mistaking the yellow 
curls for the gold which he had been expecting? Note the 
contrast. 

159. Some Power presiding over his life. What lost sense 
is returning ? What visions of the past ? 

160. He had plenty to do. An appealing picture of baby¬ 
hood. 


CHAPTER XIII 

162. Back regions of the house were left in solitude. Why 

is this mentioned ? 

162. Hornpipe, a dance performed usually by a single 
person to a lively tune. 

163. It was an apparition. Force of the simile? Another 
highly dramatic situation. 

165. Note Godfrey’s answer to Nancy’s question: “ What 
child is it? ” Why are you not surprised at his evasive 
answer ? 

165. I can’t part with it. Why is this avowal less un¬ 
expected to us than to Silas, to whom it is almost a revelation ? 

167. Follow the struggle in Godfrey’s mind. What do you 
think he will do, judging from your knowledge of his character ? 

169. What vision of the future does the author present when 
Godfrey looks at his wife’s face ? Why is this suggested ? 

169. A strange mixture of feeling, a conflict of regret and 
joy. In justice to Godfrey, remember this passage. 

170. It’s a lone thing — and I’m a lone thing. The coming 
of Eppie followed by the determination to keep and adopt the 
child is the turning point in Marner’s life, the climax of the 
main plot. But what of Godfrey ? What decision has turned 
the current of his life ? What is the climax of the subplot in 
which Godfrey is the chief actor ? 

171-172. Sense of relief and gladness too strong for painful 
thoughts to struggle with. Which feeling predominated ? 

172. Try to understand Godfrey’s course of reasoning in the 
last paragraph. Of whom does he think in the final sentence 
of Chapter XIII? 


CHAPTER XIV 

173. Reread the description of Raveloe in Chapter I, page 
4. How does the isolation of the little hamlet and the time 
account for the lack of investigation concerning Molly’s death ? 
Give examples of mysterious disappearances even in our day. 
At the present what “ feature or human interest ” stories 


NOTES AND LESSON HELPS. 


273 

could and probably would be written up in the newspapers 
about certain events in Mamer’s life ? 

174. Why were Dolly’s neighborly offices the most accept¬ 
able to Silas? Mark that Dolly is not only kindly and 
capable, but also tactful. Give examples of this trait. 

J 75 ‘ “Ah,” said Dolly — The natural poetry of this un¬ 
learned woman’s speech is beautiful. 

175. Scrat and fend, scratch for and de-fend, in the sense of 
protect. 

175. Moithered, worried. 

176. The child was come instead of the gold. Would he 
have kept Eppie, had she come before the stealing of the gold ? 
Discuss this. 

178. I believe, from the first sentences of Apostle’s Creed. 
“ I believe in God, the Father Almighty,” etc. 

178. ’Noculation. Vaccination had been recently intro¬ 
duced into England at the time of this story. 

179. What reasoning on Dolly’s part induces Mamer to go 
to church ? 

180. We called her Eppie. Connect this with his first 
impression, page 159. 

180. Note the frequent mention of Aaron. This is natural 
for the mother, but what is another reason for it ? 

181. Eppie was a creature of endless claims. Recount the 
ways in which she contrasted with the gold. 

183. An affectionate Goliath. The famous Philistine giant 
slain by King David, 1 Samuel, xvii, 23-54. Goliath is here 
used as a metonymy. Why does Silas fear to punish Eppie ? 

184. Poor Silas believed her to be a better child than usual. 
How does this thought show lack of experience with children ? 
Why does the author so often say, “ poor Silas ” ? 

187. Why would you not recommend to parents Silas’s 
conclusions about discipline after the “ toal-hole ” incident? 

187. The stone hut. Figure of speech? 

188-189. By what various ways did Eppie bring Silas into 
contact with Raveloe life and happiness ? Why isn’t it a good 
plan to go off and live by yourself after a great sorrow or 
disappointment ? 

190. Learn the last paragraph. This expresses in faultless 
prose the main theme of the book. Learn also the three lines 
from Wordsworth on the title page. 

190. City of destruction. Suggested by Bunyan’s Pilgrim's 
Progress, one of the author's favorite books as a child. 

190. A little child’s, Isaiah , xi, 6, “ and a little child shall 
lead them.” 


274 


SILAS MARNER. 


CHAPTER XV 

191. How does Godfrey excuse himself for not giving his 
daughter her birthright? What is his real reason for not 
owning her ? Is his excuse characteristic of him ? 

191. The famous ring, from a French fairy tale by Madame 
Leprince de Beaumont. 

192. The path now lay straight forward, etc. What had 
straightened the path apparently ? Picture his visions of the 
future. 

What is his idea of a father’s duty ? Some might call this 
brief transitional chapter — “ Godfrey’s Reformation.” How 
do you feel about this for a title ? 


CHAPTER XVI 

193. To show the lapse of time on beloved characters 
presses on the heart of an author and taxes his literary skill. 
It is not enough to say, “ Sixteen years have passed.” The 
results of those relentless years must be exhibited. 

193. Why is the old Raveloe church after service the scene 
of our first meeting with the characters after sixteen years ? 

195. In what two characters has time wrought the most 
marked change ? 

195. Why are we so eager to follow Silas, Eppie, and Aaron 
to the stone cottage ? What are we told by their small talk ? 
Why do these three people seem naturally to form a little group 
of their own ? 

197. Mr. Cass’s been so good to us. What mental resolve 
of Godfrey’s does this recall ? 

199. The presence of the happy animal life. How do pets 
reveal the nature of people ? George Eliot was fond of animals. 
In this story she includes Snuff, Godfrey’s brown spaniel, the 
pups Dolly’s boys were “allays a ’rearing,” a red-headed 
calf, the donkey, and now Eppie’s dog and cat. She liked 
cows especially and made frequent mention of them in her 
books. 

199. What changes do you note inside the cottage? 

201. To smoke your pipe. Another instance of his attempt 
to adjust himself to the standards of Raveloe folk. 

203. Familiar friend, Psalms, xli, 9. “ My own familiar 

friend in whom I trusted,” etc. 

203-205. What changes in Mamer, the man, led him to tell 
Dolly of his early life at Lantern Yard? This good woman’s 


NOTES AND LESSON HELPS. 


275 


interpretation of this experience shows her abiding faith in 
higher powers. It was she who teaches him “ to trusten.” 

206. There’s good i’ this world. What has brought Silas to 
this conclusion ? 

207. Why has Eppie been told of the dead mother? 

* 207-208. Perfect love has a breath of poetry. Explain why 
Eppie was different from the other village girls ? 

209. The water’s gone down. Who discovers this? Do 
you remember where and when the deserted stone-pit was 
first mentioned ? 

210. Why does the author have the draining done by 
Godfrey Cass’s order? 

211. And who is it he’s wanting to marry? Why is this no 
surprise to us? Why does the prospect please us as readers 
and friends of the two young people ? 

In this chapter what lovable traits do you find in Eppie? 
Do you think this is heredity, or the influence of that 
notable mother, Dolly Winthrop ? Discuss both sides of the 
question. 


CHAPTER XVII 

214. Contrast the parlor of the Red House in Chapter XVII 
with that in Chapter III, page 33. 

216. Michaelmas, a church festival in honor of St. 
Michael, September 29. 

217. What is lacking in the life of Nancy and Godfrey? 

217. I know the way o’ wives. This observation is char¬ 
acteristic of Priscilla. What is funny about her remarks ? 

218. Mant’s Bible, a popular family Bible published at 
Oxford in 1814, containing explanatory notes by Reverend 
Richard Mant, D.D. 

219. In the calm atmosphere of this Sabbath afternoon, 
what are Nancy’s thoughts ? 

219-223. From your understanding of Nancy’s character, 
explain her resistance to Godfrey’s wish that they adopt a 
child. How does Nancy show that her life has been rather 
narrow and her experience limited ? What child did Godfrey 
have in mind for adoption? Whose feelings does he utterly 
disregard in this connection ? What is your opinion of adopt¬ 
ing children ? 

223. Transported. It was the custom to banish convicts 
to some remote colony — Australia is probably meant here. 

225. Why is Godfrey no nearer to a confession of his past 
life than in his youth ? 


276 


SILAS MARNER. 


226. Now gave his childless home the aspect of a ret¬ 
ribution. Meaning of this in Godfrey’s mind ? 

227. With the tea-things. A thoroughly English touch, 
just as true to form now as then. 

228. Like a raven flapping its slow wing across the sunny 
air. What foreboding in this simile ? 

CHAPTER XVIII 

230. Godfrey announces the discovery of Dunstan’s skeleton 
with Marner’s gold. His reason is a personal one. He wants 
to be the first to tell Nancy, but the author recognizes that 
the dramatic effect is better than if some one else had told it 
to her. Why is this true ? 

231. When God Almighty wills it, our secrets are found out. 

In the light of his character, explain why he now confesses the 
secret of his youth. If the stone-pit had not been drained and 
Dunstan’s body found, would he ever have told Nancy? In 
your opinion should he have told her at this time ? 

232. How is he surprised by Nancy’s response to his an¬ 
nouncement that Eppie is his child ? 

233. I wasn’t worth doing wrong for, nothing is in the 
world. Here Nancy’s nature rises far superior to Godfrey’s. 

CHAPTER XIX 

The lives of Mamer and Godfrey cross again for the last 
time. Bring to mind the scene in Chapter XIII, page 170, 
where both men made momentous decisions. Now it is Eppie 
who makes her decision. 

235. The money was taken away from me in time. It takes 
no hold on me now. What is his reasoning here ? 

236-237. How is Godfrey’s view of the restored money 
different from Mamer’s ? 

237. Their difficulty in getting to the point of this visit is 
trying to the reader, but more so to the characters. Its 
naturalness excuses the slow movement. 

239. It would be a great comfort to you in your old age. 
Godfrey seems to feel that he is taking a burden from Silas in 
offering to adopt Eppie. How do you account for his total 
lack of discernment and feeling ? 

240. I don’t want to be a lady. In what sense does Eppie 
use the word “lady”? Social distinctions were perhaps 
stronger in England at this time than at present; but difference 
in class is more marked in England than in America, and this 


notes and lesson helps. 


277 


difference of social organization we must bear in mind. It, 
helps to explain Godfrey and Nancy’s sense of superiority and 
to excuse their apparent heartlessness. They honestly thought 
that Eppie should be grateful to exchange a humble lot in life 
for a higher social position. 

241. “ Why didn’t you say so sixteen years ago ? ” Get the 
full force of this scathing denunciation. Marner loses all fear 
of his betters. “ When a man turns a blessing from his door, it 
falls to them as takes it in." Here in Mamer’s wording we have 
the second theme of the story as centered about Godfrey. 
“As a man sows, so must he reap,” or “ with what measure 
ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.” 

242. I want to do my duty. This would have eased his 
mind. We must not forget that Godfrey has probably been 
troubled for sixteen years about disowning his daughter. 
Eppie’s refusal to be adopted by him is not his sole punish¬ 
ment. Why is he not allowed to find solace in duty fulfilled ? 

243. Do you share Nancy’s view that a real father must 
have a claim above a foster father ? 

246. I can’t feel as I’ve got any father but one, etc. What 
is Eppie’s concluding reason which settles further argument ? 

CHAPTER XX 

248. There’s debts we can’t pay like money debts. How 

does Godfrey apply this to his own life and conduct ? 

248. I wanted to pass for childless once, — What is the 
rest of this sentence ? 

248. Do you think Godfrey did or did not reveal his secret 
in his will ? Do you think Eppie was his heir in either case ? 

249. I should never have got into trouble, had I been true 
to you. He does not excuse himself at the last. George 
Eliot always held her characters morally responsible for their 
wrong deeds, although she did sympathize with their faulty 
behavior. In perfect understanding, if not in perfect happi¬ 
ness, Nancy and Godfrey pass out of the picture. 

CHAPTER XXI 

251. Why does Silas want to return to Lantern Yard? 

255. The old home’s gone ; I’ve no home but this now. 

Significance of this remark ? 

254-255. Considering the rise of the industrial England at 
the time of this story, it is to be expected that a factory should 
stand on the site of Lantern Yard. This is truth, but it is also 


278 


SILAS MARNER 


good art to leave the early trials of Silas’s life unexplained. 
The author knows that life cannot be reduced to a neatly 
ordered formula. We cannot change the dark into light, nor 
silence into sound. 

255. I shall trusten till I die. What more could we ask ? 


CONCLUSION 

The Casses are not at the wedding. They do not belong 
there. Nancy has provided the wedding dress, Godfrey the 
feast at the Rainbow. Money can buy these. 

Silas standing in the real father’s place gives Eppie away 
and takes Aaron for his son. Dolly Winthrop gains a daugh¬ 
ter, and Eppie a mother. 

The final scene is at the Rainbow among the people whom 
Eppie has chosen for her own. 


SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY 


I. Topics on George Eliot’s Life. 

(i) Her childhood (see The Mill on the Floss, Biography by 
Mathilde Blind, or any standard book in your library). (2) Her 
home life to the age of thirty. (3) The George Eliot country. 
(4) George Eliot as an essayist and editor. (5) Her first at¬ 
tempts at novel writing. Reasons for taking the pen name 
of George Eliot. (6) Review Romola or Daniel Deronda. 
Middlemarch or Adam Bede. (7) Her poems — read es¬ 
pecially “ Brother and Sister ” and “ The Choir Invisible.” 
(8) George Eliot’s treatment of children (see Silas Marner, 
Adam Bede, Clerical Tales). (9) Famous people of George 
Eliot’s time. (10) George Eliot as a letter writer (Cross’s 
Life of George Eliot). 

II. Setting (Time and Place). 

(1) Find four paragraphs descriptive of Raveloe and its 
people. (Note the topic sentences.) (2) What superstitious 
beliefs were held by them? (3) Are there any sections in 
the United States holding similar beliefs? (4) What refer¬ 
ences to history determine the time ? (5) What customs and 

ways of living? (6) Could the essential plot of this story 
happen now? (7) In your opinion would the newspaper, 
telegraph, telephone, automobile, and airship affect the story, 
were it cast in a present-day setting? Would prohibition? 
(8) Are there any men like Godfrey Cass living now? Dis¬ 
cuss. 

III. Plot. 

(1) How does the story begin, and who is telling it? 

(2) Mention three different ways of starting a story. 

(3) Write fully of the controlling incident in Mamer’s life 
before coming to Raveloe. (4) What effect did the Lantern 
Yard episode have upon Silas? (5) Did he take the right 
course in leaving for “ foreign parts ” ? 

279 


28o 


SILAS MARNER. 


(6) What are the plot incidents in Silas Marner which lead 
up to the climax and then fall to the conclusion ? (7) What 

incidents reveal character, show humor, irony, pathos, or 
give an impression of the people and the time ? (Developing 
incidents.) (8) What suspense is there in Silas Marner? 
Any foreshadowing ? (9) Elements of mystery ? (10) Note 

the ending of chapters. (11) Does the story end as you wish 
it to? (12) Does the author or do the characters, by their 
thoughts and deeds, control the action? (13) A plot must 
present conflicts. Are the conflicts in Silas Marner in the mind, 
or are they outside of the characters, as the storming of the castle 
in Ivanhoe or the stockade in Treasure Island? (14) Is the 
story too short, too long, or just right ? 

IV. Characters. 

(1) Name the two sets of characters in this book and the 
principals in each set. (2) What makes these people differ¬ 
ent? (3) George Eliot was concerned with the development 
of character and the effect of people on each other. What 
characters in the story changed ? (4) Did any remain the 

same? (5) What influences (people and surroundings) af¬ 
fected Silas, Godfrey, Nancy, Eppie ? (6) What subordinate 

or minor characters add greatly to the story? (7) What is 
their purpose? What is Dunstan’s function as a character? 
(8) How is George Eliot’s treatment of character different 
from Scott’s in Ivanhoe, Cooper’s in The Spy, Stevenson’s 
in Treasure Island? (9) Which is more interesting, what 
people do or what they think? (10) Why do the characters 
seem life-like ? 

V. Purpose or Theme. 

(1) What is the chief theme of this book as centered about 
Silas? (2) The chief theme concerning Godfrey? 

VI. Author’s Way of Writing (Style). 

(1) Is the story easy to understand or not ? (2) How is the 

balance kept between the two sets of characters and between 
narration and description ? (3) Any exposition ? (4) George 

Eliot is famous for her dialogue and use of dialect. (See 
Chapter VI.) What are the requirements for good dialogue? 
(5) What is its purpose? (6) What is the effect of dialect? 
(7) What artistic use is made of contrast, such as cold and 


SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDY. 


281 


warmth? (8) Why does Silas find Eppie on the hearth? 
(9) .Why soft yellow curls — hard yellow gold? (10) What 
similarities give effect as storm, darkness, robb.ery ? (11) What 
striking figures of speech? (12) What passages hold you be¬ 
cause of beauty in their wording ? 

(Note). Those teachers interested in precis writing will find 
valuable passages for this purpose in Silas Marner. See 
Thurber’s Precis Writing for American Schools (Little, 
Brown); also the Precis Writing Test (Public School Publish¬ 
ing Company, Bloomington, Illinois). 

VII. For Discussion. 

(1) Godfrey Cass was not to blame for his life because 
(a) his mother was dead, ( b ) his home was unattractive, 
(c) he lived in a little, dull place, (d) his father was lax, not teach¬ 
ing his sons to work or do anything that would develop them. 
He would have been the same kind of a man had he driven 
a sports roadster, an airplane, had a radio, read the news¬ 
papers, lived in a saloonless land, and known no girls called 
“barmaids.” How did the author feel about Godfrey? 
(2) Godfrey was more of a coward than Dunstan and a 
worse man really. (3) Married people without children should 
adopt them. Apply this statement to Nancy. (4) Silas 
was not really a miser. (5) Godfrey should have confessed 
all to Nancy before he asked her to marry him. (6) God¬ 
frey and Nancy were heartless in wanting to adopt Eppie. 
(7) The principal characters in this book got what they de¬ 
served, ill or good. (8) Silas should have found Lantern 
Yard and cleared up the early injustice done him. (9) Under¬ 
line the adjectives which you think apply to these characters. 
Silas, as we first knew him in Raveloe was: miserly, selfish, 
lonesome, heartsick, embittered, grouchy, friendless, loved, 
appealing, stingy, out of tune (non-adjusted), cheerful, happy, 
industrious, sensitive, timid. Nancy was: sweet, narrow¬ 
minded, prim, firm, veracious, fault-finding, humorous, for¬ 
giving, just, pretty, insipid, proud,'conscientious, dutiful, set 
in her ways, refined, sincere, lovable. (10) Make lists of your 
own for the other characters. 

VIII. For Themes and Projects. (Choose One.) 

(1) Make a graph to show the twenty-two chapters of Silas 
Marner , letting one inch or one-half inch represent each chap¬ 
ter. The dimensions would be 11 X 11 or 22 X 22. (Enlarged, 
it may be put on the board.) Then show the development of 


282 


SILAS MARNER. 


the story by colored lines, using red crayon for the villagers 
and blue for the gentry. Bring the lines together in the 
chapters where the paths of the two sets of characters cross. 
This will show the plot development leading to climax and 
conclusion. The blue line begins in the third chapter and 
ends in the twentieth. 

(2) Suppose you were a reporter for the county paper near 
Raveloe. Write a newspaper account of Manner's robbery. 
The finding of Eppie and the dead mother, the discovery of 
Dunstan’s skeleton and its connection with the robbery. 
(3) Eppie’s influence over Silas. (4) Nancy’s influence on 
Godfrey. (5) Effect of children in the home. (6) Letter 
from Miss Gunn describing Nancy, the party at the Red 
House, and Marner’s appearance with Eppie. (7) As a man 
thinketh, so is he. (8) Future life of William Dane and 
Sarah. (Write this, following out George Eliot’s belief that 
wronging a fellow man always brought punishment. But 
remember punishment is not always visible; the damage may 
be to the soul.) (d) Humor in Silas Marner. (10) Write a 
moving-picture scenario suggesting plot and developing inci¬ 
dents for the pictures. Write the titles or, if a Talkie, write or 
choose the conversational passages. (11) Dolly Winthrop, 
her ideas of life and her part in rearing Eppie. (12) Dress a 
doll to represent one of the characters in Silas Marner; 
Nancy at the Red House party for example. This will show 
you how detailed were the author’s descriptions. 


LIBRARY REFERENCES 


George Eliot's Life, compiled for the most part from her 
letters and journals by her husband, John Walter Cross, is the 
standard, and has all the value of an autobiography. George 
Willis Cooke’s George Eliot contains the best analysis of her 
writings and philosophy, with a good bibliography, pp. 425- 
434. Oscar Browning’s Life of George Eliot , in the Great 
Writers’ Series, is a valuable exposition of her teachings, and 
includes a bibliography by J. P. Anderson. Mathilde Blind’s 
Life of George Eliot, in the Great Women Series, is a good 
short biography. Charles Waldstein’s George Eliot, in the 
Charles Dudley Warner Library (1897), is an able critical 
study. S. Parkinson’s Scenes from the George Eliot Country 
shows the influence of her early surroundings. Elizabeth S. 
Haldane’s George Eliot and Her Times, 1927, is a recent impor¬ 
tant book, and so is Charles S. Olcott's George Eliot — Scenes and 
People in Her Novels. Leslie Stephen’s “ George Eliot,” in the 
Dictionary of National Biography, Vol. XIII, pp. 216-222, 
is a good short life. Henry James, Jr.’s, “ Life of George 
Eliot,” in the Atlantic Monthly for May, 1885, and Frederic 
Harrison’s “ Life of George Eliot,” in the Fortnightly Review 
for March, 1885, contain sound criticisms. Frederic W. H. 
Myers’s “George Eliot,” in the Century for November, 1881, 
has an excellent portrait. The above are the most trust¬ 
worthy biographies of George Eliot, and all contain helpful 
criticism. 

In the study of George Eliot as an artist and teacher, the 
student should, of course, form a first-hand acquaintance with 
her writings. Much will be learned, for example, of her 
religious views from her essay, “ Worldliness and Other¬ 
worldliness,” and of her philosophy from Book II, Chapter 
XVII, of Adam Bede. Her poem, “ Brother and Sister,” 
and The Mill on the Floss, should be read for their auto¬ 
biographic interest. The following additional helps to a 
correct estimate of George Eliot’s position in English litera¬ 
ture are recommended: Saintsbury’s Nineteenth Century 
Literature, pp. 321-324; Lanier’s The English Novel, chapters ■» 
on George Eliot; Pancoast’s Introduction to English Litera- 

283 


284 


SILAS MARNER. 


lure, pp. 446-458 ; Dowden’s Studies in Literature, pp. 240- 
272 ; Hutton’s Modern Guides, pp. 145-297 ; also his Essays 
Theological and Literary, Vol. II, pp. 294-367 ; Brown’s Ethics 
of George Eliot; Scherer’s Essays on English Literature; 
Harrison's Studies in Early Victorian Literature; Morley’s 
Critical Miscellanies, Vol. Ill, pp. 93-132; McCarthy’s 
Modern Leaders, pp. 136-144; Paul’s Biographical Sketches, 
pp. 141-170; Lancaster’s Essays and Reviews, pp. 351-398; 
Myers’s Modern Essays, pp. 251-275; Ames’s George Eliot's 
Two Marriages ; Elizabeth S. Haldane’s George Eliot and Her 
Times; Charles S. Olcott’s George Eliot — Scenes and People 
in Her Novels. 

Magazine articles: See Poole’s Index; Rose Kingsley’s 
“George Eliot’s Country," Century, July, 1885; Gardner’s 
“ George Eliot’s Quarries,” Atlantic Monthly, November, 
1925 ; Annie Mattheson’s “ George Eliot’s Children," Littell’s 
Living Age, Vol. CLV; Law’s “ Main Street and Silas 
Marner,” Independent, March 11, 1922. 


BIOGRAPHICAL OUTLINE 


Important Dates in the Life of George Eliot 

1819. Mary Ann Evans, “ George Eliot,” born November 
22 at South Farm, Arbury, Warwickshire, England, in the 
last year of the reign of George III. 

1820-1841. Lived at Griff House, Nuneaton, in the midst of 
farmhouses and scenery described in Adam Bede and 
The Mill on the Floss. 

1824-1827. Attended Miss Lathom’s boarding school. 

1827-1831. Attended Miss Wallington’s school and read 
Bunyan, Defoe, Johnson, Scott, Lamb, etc. 

1831-1835. At the Misses Franklin's school at Coventry, 
under strong Calvinistic influences. 

1836. Death of her mother; domestic cares; learns Italian 
and German; studies music, science, metaphysics, math¬ 
ematics, and the great English poets. 

1841. March, removed to Coventry with her father; friend¬ 
ship with the Brays, resulting in a change to Unitarianism 
in her religious views. 

1846. Translated Strauss’s Lehen Jesu. 

1849. May 31, death of her father, Robert Evans. 

1849-1850. Visited France and Italy; resided eight months 
in Geneva. 

1851-1857. Wrote for the Westminster Review, of which 
she became assistant editor; met Lewes, Chapman, Spen¬ 
cer, and the Martineaus. 

1853. Removed to Hyde Park, London. 

1854. Translated Feuerbach’s Essence of Christianity. 

1854-1858. Union with George Henry Lewes, journalist and 

philosopher; spent eight months in Weimar and Berlin; 
wrote for the Leader and Westminster. 

1856-1858. Publication of Scenes of Clerical Life , under 
pen name of George Eliot. 

1859. Publication of Adam Bede, her first long novel; end of 
incognito. 

1860. Publication of The Mill on the Floss; visited Italy. 

285 



286 


SILAS MARNER. 


1861. Publication of Silas Marner; visited Florence in May. 

1863. Publication of her great Italian novel Romola , begun 
in the Cornhill Magazine for July, 1862. 

1866. Publication of Felix Holt, a socialistic novel. 

1867. Visited Spain. 

1868-1869. Publication of “ The Spanish Gypsy,” a dramatic 
poem, and other poems, “ Agatha,” “How Liza loved 
the King,” “ Brother and Sister,” “The Choir Invisible.” 

1870. Journey to Berlin and Vienna. 

1871- 1872. Publication of Middlemarch. 

1872- 1873. Visited Hamburg and Cambridge. 

1874. Publication of “ Legend of Jubal,” and other poems. 

1876. Publication of Daniel Deronda, a Jewish novel. 

1877. Removed to “ The Heights,” her country home in 
Surrey. 

1878. Death of Lewes, November 28. 

1879. Publication of Theophrastus Such. 

1880. May 6, marriage with John Walter Cross; death De¬ 
cember 22. 



















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